CHRISTMAS-NEW YEAR - NEWRY ISLAND: CHAPTER ONE...

Warning: This is quite a lengthy tale - so I'm breaking it into chapters...Chapter One begins below - Others will follow over the next little while.

CHAPTER ONE


In the early Nineties I lived, alone, on Newry Island; well, not entirely, alone, “Pushkin” and “Rimsky” my two cats were my bedfellows.

The island lies within the Great Barrier Reef World Heritage Area. Since 2001 only camping is allowed on the island. Most of the buildings were demolished; only shells of their former selves remain.

Once upon a time, back in the early to mid-1900s, Newry Island housed one of the earliest resorts in that northern area. Newry lies between Rabbit Island and Outer Newry Island; with Acacia and Mausoleum Islands nearby to its south-east. Newry sits in the azure waters of the Coral Sea, 25kms north of Mackay; and few kilometres north of Seaforth, as the fish swim, or as the seagulls fly. A well-maintained boat ramp at the 22km long Victor Creek, 4kms north of Seaforth is the main departure point for Newry Island.

In my care were the island’s basic accommodation, bar and dining facilities. It was my job to handle everything it took to run the small, unsophisticated resort.
From my first sight on the first day I crossed from the mainland to the island, an island I’d never visited before, I fell in love the run-down resort with its cabins built close to the foreshore, facing the ocean; its simple, straightforward, unrefined main dining/bar area in need of repair harboured many stories between its walls. The buildings reminded me of the seaside as it used to be when I was a small child; a long time before our coastal areas and tropical islands became clones of Hawaii, Florida and similar glossy, “plastic” holiday areas.

No rain, or very, very little, had fallen during the nine months since my arrival on the island. The dam was at a disturbingly low level; it had gone beyond hovering; daily, its level decreased. Lowering the pump became an every day chore for me to enable water to flow down to the main building, the guest cabins, and to the outside public amenities block. Eight self-contained cabins, the bar/dining/kitchen area, and a camping site were serviced by the dam’s water supply. Fortunately, visitors to Newry understood my dire water shortage. In most cases, they happily obeyed my requests to not waste the precious commodity.

Christmas was drawing close. The eight cabins were booked out for the Christmas/New Year break; all by family groups. My plans for the “Silly Season” were well underway. The larder and bar were being stocked. I made sure I had more than sufficient supplies of diesel for the running of the generators. The main holding tank was full, and I had a couple of spare drums…just in case! Everything was running smoothly…I was on top of it all.

Cyclone Joy formed out in the Coral Sea, off the coast from Cairns on 18th December, 1990. Joy slowly travelled westward; and then remained hovering off the coast of Cairns for almost a week, causing rough seas and high tides along the northern beaches between Port Douglas and Cairns; teasing everyone’s equilibrium. With little or no forewarning, on Christmas Eve, tiring of the Cairns’ area, Joy picked up speed and headed southwards.

From the outset of Cyclone Joy’s appearance on the 18th, I’d been monitoring her activity and progress daily; not only by radio, but also by frequent telephone contact with friends who lived at Clifton Beach, north of Cairns. When living on a tropical island or at any of the coastal and near coastal areas in North Queensland it’s mandatory to keep track of a cyclone’s erratic movements.

My commonsense kicked into gear a week before Christmas.  I knew I'd need someone to give me a hand through the busy time ahead.  A couple of weeks earlier I'd met a very nice young girl, Alice, who had visited the island for a weekend with her young boyfriend.  Alice's father, Ian, was a guest on the island at that time; so the young folk joined him for a couple of days.  Rick, Alice's new boyfriend was a nice young lad.  He was working as a jackaroo on a property out from Sarina, south of Mackay. Rick wads off the land. His family were beef cattle people.  Alice took a gap-year off from her university studies, having decided to travel around Australia, much to her mother's dismay.

Alice had been a governess at another cattle property outside of Sarina, but when I met her she was no longer working in that role.  She was staying at a backpackers' hostel in Mackay, run by friends of her father, Ian.

So I had a light bulb moment.  Alice would be my ideal work companion through the Christmas period.  Fortunately, when I offered her the job (a very low paying position...I couldn't afford to pay her much over and beyond her board and keep...including access to the bar!), she jumped at the chance.  I picked her up by boat from the mainland the following day.  No time was wasted dilly-dalllying over decisions!

Alice and I had ball together. We had so much fun.  I may have been old enough to be her mother, but we got on like a house on fire.  She was a great, intelligent young woman with a zest for life. 

After a few days Alice asked if it would be okay if Jill, her mother, came to the island to spend Christmas. They'd not seen each other for a while. I agreed, of course.  Jill lived in Melbourne; Melbourne was Alice's home city.  Jill was thrilled at the invitation, and like her daughter, wasted no time in heading north to Queensland...and Newry Island.  I had to pick her up Christmas morning along with other guests who had booked to come across to the island for Christmas Day.  All was set in place.

Christmas Eve arrived on Newry Island, bringing with it a clear blue sky and gentle sea breezes. The temperature was around 28C…perfect summer weather; perfect Christmas weather, with not a hint of a storm on the horizon, let alone a cyclone. My day was filled with a multitude of chores as I prepared the following day’s Christmas lunch for my expected 30 guests. I kept patting myself on the back for having the good sense to ask Alice to be my off-sider.  She was wonderful with people.  She was a smart girl; and she was the life of the party.  I couldn't have wished for more.

My Christmas lunch menu consisted mainly of cold fare, accompanied by couple of hot dishes. The final preparation of the planned dishes I’d complete on Christmas morning after I'd picked up the balance of my guests. Early Christmas morning I planned to make two boat trips across to Victor Creek on the mainland to collect guests who’d booked to stay on the island for a week, intending to enjoy New Year on the island as well. Amongst those guests were also some day-trippers, overseas backpackers.

My holidaying guests were mainly family groups with little children. Along with the family groups, a couple of young fellows in the mid-to late twenties who often stopped off at the island during their fishing expeditions chose the island to be their Christmas destination, too.

Early Christmas Eve morning with broad smiles across their friendly faces they arrived by their own boat, a 12-foot runabout. They anchored it close inshore. I suggested to deaf ears that it would be more sensible to anchor their boat out near where my boat was moored; in the deep waters of the channel between Newry Island and Outer Newry Island; but I’m a woman…what would I know about boats?

Christmas Ever evening we partied a bit, of course.  Later on in the night once the guests returned to their cabins after spending a fun evening mingling at the bar enjoying a few Christmas spirits of the liquid kind, Alice and I finished off decorating the extensive, temporary buffet table that was to hold the elaborate luncheon feast. The table was adorned with palm fronds, banana leaves and bougainvillea blooms; along with various other specimens of indigenous greenery befitting a tropical island. Once satisfied with our efforts, we stood back and admired our excellent creativity! The long table looked spectacular.

The Christmas tree standing proudly at one end of the dining room. Alice and I had found a suitable dead,  weathered remnant of what had once been a living tree. Sprayed white, it had been given a rebirth; a second life. It looked wonderful - sparse but it stood proudly in its place. Glimmering silver, white, red and green baubles hung from its spindly limbs; the glistening balls of varying sizes reflected the moon’s rays as they shimmered through the full-length windows that looked out across the beach to the softly murmuring sea; a perfect ending to a perfect Christmas Eve.

I felt excited about the coming day.

The Christmas spirit on the island was alive and well; it was contagious. Those who had children assured the little ones that Santa knew where they were; lemonade and slices of my rich fruit cake were left on the end of the bar for Santa’s anticipated arrival during the night. My luncheon preparations were all but completed. Feeling confident everything would run smoothly, my first Christmas Day on Newry Island couldn’t arrive quickly enough. I could see only calm waters ahead.


By 8 am Christmas morning I’d already completed two return boat trips between the island and Victor Creek, Seaforth to fetch the balance of my guests; day-trippers intent on returning to the mainland later in the afternoon after a leisurely tropical island Christmas lunch. In all, including the guests already settled in the cabins, on Christmas Day the final number of guests increased from 30 to 31; all keen to partake in my special luncheon fare and the island’s ambience. Some guests, of course, were staying beyond Christmas Day. Five young children were included in the number; and amongst those children were twins, aged around 20 months.

After my second group of day-trippers disembarked, I motored out to the mooring to secure my 21-foot Trojan De Havilland; and then, I rowed ashore in my little red tender. The little red dinghy had two wheels beneath its stern, making it easy for me to pull along the sand. Upon reaching the beach, I pulled it right up to the foreshore, and tied it securely to one of She-Oaks fringing the beach.

Once satisfied everyone, including Jill, Alice's mother was happily settled in and relaxed, I raced into the kitchen to begin finalising my luncheon preparations. Alice kept an eye on the bar because I couldn’t be in two places at once; but along with my two regular fishermen guests also tended to everyone’s requirements if needed, that end was well-covered; therefore taking a lot of pressure off my shoulders. I had no concerns that anyone would take advantage. My guests couldn’t go anywhere. They were on an island surrounded by water; with me the sole operator of the boat. I was their only means of escape! I held the tiller, as it were!

From the moment I stepped into the kitchen, I didn’t see daylight again until around 11.30 am when I emerged from the galley to begin laying out salads and various other cold platters onto the long buffet table in the dining area, in readiness for the hungry hordes to descend.

Glancing towards the ocean, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The weather was unrecognisable to what it had been only three or so hours earlier when I’d returned from my second trip to the mainland. The conditions had changed for the worst. A frenzied sea was being whipped up by a boisterous, unrelenting wind; it whirled erratically and wildly. The once clear sky was now covered in low-hanging, steely-grey clouds that groaned and moaned from their heavy load. The burdensome clouds threatened to explode at any moment.

I hadn't the time, nor did I have the ability to row out to my boat on its mooring in the channel. To try to do so would have been madness. When I first arrived on Newry months previously, I’d been advised that in the event of a cyclone for me to anchor the island boat securely away up in the far reaches of the creek across the channel on neighbouring Outer Newry Island. The turbulent system now racing southwards was moving too quickly for me to act.

BEFORE YOU GO ON A WILD GOOSE CHASE, TAKE A GANDER AT THIS!

Disappointments are part of life. Each one of us has high expectations of many things. I know I have; and, to be honest, it’s not my only failing. At times, my high expectations can be my downfall. I expect a lot of others; but, in reality, no more than I ask of and expect from me. There are times I disappoint myself; and there are as many times, if not more, that the behaviour of others disappoints me.

Sometimes we’re pleasantly surprised when the end results meet or, on occasions, go beyond our expectations. Alternatively, we can be bitterly (or mildly, too) disappointed when something or someone doesn’t “measure up”. It happens - that's all part of the rich tapestry of Life! Venturing further, I dare say that experiencing disappointments makes one appreciate the reverse situation even more.

In the early Eighties, brimming with excitement and anticipation, my then mother-in-law and I drove to Brisbane from the coast we lived at the time to see the visiting Bolshoi Ballet’s performance of “Swan Lake”.

A few months earlier we’d attended a matinée concert in Caloundra on the Sunshine Coast where we watched, in awe, the Queensland Youth Ballet perform “Alice in Wonderland”. Brilliantly executed by a troupe of exuberant, talented young dancers, it was a colourful, entertaining and memorable event.

So it was with high expectations, off to the Bolshoi’s performance of Tchaikovsky’s beautiful ballet we drove. Who knew if we’d ever again get a chance to see the world-acclaimed, much-loved ballet that premièred at Moscow’s Bolshoi Theatre in 1877.

“Swan Lake” is synonymous with the Bolshoi Ballet; to my way of thinking (and I’m not alone in these thoughts, I imagine) it walks (or dances) arm in arm with the name “Bolshoi”.

However, to our surprise and great disappointment the performance we watched that particular Saturday evening in Brisbane was absolutely abysmal! Like a mob of amateurs, the dancers stumbled about the stage, desperately devoid of grace. The company of dancers received lack-lustre applause with no standing ovations. Obviously my companion and I weren’t alone in our judgments!

I spent half the evening watching the members of the orchestra in the pit; the lady harpist, in particular. She was far more entertaining and talented than those purporting to cavort across the stage! They weren’t a sight for sore eyes...they caused sore eyes!

No wonder Nureyev chose the Kirov over the Bolshoi; and no wonder he chose to defect!

The Bolshoi dancers waddled about the stage like an inebriated, bedraggled gaggle of geese!

The “Danse des Petits Cygnes” (Dance of the Little Swans) was more like the “Dance of the Headless Chickens”! The cygnets didn’t know how to degagé their derrière.

Not only were Odette’s feathers ruffled at the pas de deux between Odile and Prince Siegfried (he should’ve been fried), ours were, too.

The local wood ducks up here on the mountain that blissfully paddle on a nearby dam are more graceful!

My expectations of the Bolshoi Ballet were permanently shattered that Saturday evening.

However, Nureyev didn’t disappoint when I watched him dance in “Giselle” during his Brisbane visit in the mid-Seventies. Rudy mesmerized; his sensual, feline movements; his arrogance and strength were breathtaking! Nureyev certainly cut the mustard!

Unfortunately, at that time Brisbane didn’t have a suitable venue to host such a dancer of Nureyev’s quality. It was during the days of Brisbane's old Festival Hall and the only ballet that could be performed was “Giselle” because the stage wasn’t big enough for other ballets.

I convinced my ex-husband to go along with me to see Rudy. I said I was going whether he did or not, anyway. But he did accompany me, albeit a little unwillingly.

We had wonderful seats to the side of the hall with unhindered view of the stage; and our seats were quite near to the stage - looking down onto the dances.

The old Festival Hall was originally built as a boxing stadium back around 1910. Throughout the ensuing years it hosted not only boxing matches, but wrestling, as well as "roller derby". It also was the venue for many rock concerts. The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Alice Cooper, The Kinks, The Bee Gees to name but a few performed in the hall. I saw Paul McCartney and Wings there; Neil Diamond...even Benny Goodman...and so many more. Festival Hall really wasn't suitable for a ballet performance, particularly one with Rudolph Nureyev as its principal male dancer, but as I said back in the Seventies Brisbane had no other suitable venue.

So there were all the ladies of the city dressed up "to the nines" with their diamonds, pearls and faux furs in the dowdy, old hall.

When the ballet came to an end, and Nureyev came out to take his bows.

Spontaneously, I leapt up out of my seat and yelled out loudly: "Good on you, Rudy!"

Quite a number of the ladies in the front rows looked up at me in distaste. I'm sure I heard a few "Tsk! Tsks"! My ex made futile attempts of disowning me...but...Rudolph Nureyev turned to me; smiled and bowed! To me!

I hadn't intended calling out to him, but in my excitement of seeing the master dance...anything was possible! My adrenaline was flowing. I'm glad I did yell out to him...at least, I can truthfully say that Nureyev bowed and smiled at me; he acknowledged me excitement. It's a moment I will never forget; and one I will always cherish.

I would’ve watched Rudy dance “Gangnam Style” in a cow paddock – as long as I saw him dance live!

Garlic-Mustard Goose: Position oven rack in bottom third of oven; preheat oven 220C. Remove excess fat and skin from tail and neck cavities. Pierce goose with sharp fork, especially where fat is thickest on legs and lower breast; don’t pierce the flesh. Season cavities and skin; tie legs together to hold shape. Place goose, breast side down, on V-shaped rack set in roasting pan. Add enough water to pan to reach depth of 1/2 inch. Roast 40mins. Spoon off fat from surface of liquid in pan; reserve 1/4 cup fat. Reduce oven to 175C. Turn goose onto 1 side. Roast 30mins. Turn goose onto second side. Roast 30mins. Combine 3tbls Dijon mustard, 2tbls lemon juice, 2 crushed garlic cloves, salt, pepper, and 1/2tsp thyme or marjoram. Turn goose breast side up. Brush goose with mustard-garlic mixture. Roast until juices run clear when thigh is pierced with fork, about 50mins. Transfer goose to platter; tent loosely with foil to keep warm. Reserve pan juices. Spoon fat from top of juices in roasting pan; add 1/2c port; bring to boil on stove top until reduced to 1 cup. Whisk together 1/3rd cup plain flour and 1/4c reserved goose fat in saucepan over med-low heat until roux is light brown, about 5mins. Gradually which in port mixture and 2-1.2c quality stock; simmer until thickened; whisking constantly; stir in 2tbls port; season to taste. Don’t be a silly goose! Get goosed! Cook your goose! Let it be the feature of your Christmas table this year!

AMIDST STREAMERS, WHISTLES, BALLOONS AND POPPING CORKS AM I!

It's not only because the start of the "Silly Season" is drawing near - for me there is always a lot going on at this time of the year. Everything commences in early November. It’s been this way since I was born. Unfortunately, the momentum increases each year - the years have gained momentum, that is, not me. I’ve slowed down to a snail’s pace!

Mercurial years travel faster than the speed of light; swifter than a Swift! They’ve accelerated at an unfair rapid rate of knots! The pace allows me no time to catch my breath, let alone put out the garbage! On top of having to accept the transient years’ high velocity, something is missing from my celebratory couple of weeks – the explosive gaiety of Guy Fawkes’ Night! Party-poopers took that celebration away from us years ago!

Purposely, the grandeur of my birthday celebrations is toned down of late. These days I sneak up on birthdays, and then, in silence, I tip-toe past before the day realises what day it is! This trick comes with age; and with age, comes wisdom. Do you recognise the simile? As with “the chicken and the egg” – what comes first – age or wisdom?” Maybe it’s just age alone! Let’s not delve too deeply into that one – moving on!

With another birthday looming (it finished “looming” on Sunday, 11th November…Remembrance Day), I thought this year I’d celebrate it in a style beyond that of years gone by. I believed I’d be the winner of the $100million Oz7; but, once again the clumsy Lotto mob chose the wrong numbers! When will they get it right?

Therefore, I didn’t go crazy on Sunday; but I did feast upon a huge pile of fresh Aussie prawns from the waters of the Great Barrier Reef up Cairns way. Along with crunchy-crusted fresh bread, butter, cider vinegar and a finger bowl, I was in Seventh Heaven!

On the subject of winning huge amounts; it always amazes me when people say: “Oh! That’s too much money for one person!” A Brisbane friend of long-standing declared similar to me the other day as we discussed said Lotto. I couldn’t help but correct her, as that is not my belief, in any way; it never has been! She’d quickly change her tune if I won an enormous amount!

Every one of my best friends would benefit from my good fortune; as would some relatives (the operative word being "some"...there are some I'd probably bypass!). The majority of my close relatives are worthy recipients, and they, the majority, would be well-taken care of; they’d be set for the rest of their lives. Of course, it’d be up to them not to squander the “golden egg”; but, once theirs, they could do with it whatever they wished; but I have faith in their astute judgment and commonsense. After all, they accept me for who I am; making their expert, impeccable judgment undeniable!

There are so many charities and good causes, such as Cancer and Alzheimer’s research, to name but two of numerous others, that’d be beneficiaries of my good luck. I’d revel in the enjoyment of spreading my triumphant windfall, my lucky break, amongst family, friends and good causes. I’d feel no guilt whatsoever in savouring such selfish fun, expecting and wanting nothing in return; already I would have received more than enough! So, you see, $100million wouldn’t be too much for this one person. Selfishly I’d accept my winnings; I’d bask and wallow in guiltless pleasure!

The best job in the world is philanthropy. I’d love to be able to apply for, and get the job! Now, please excuse me - I need to blow up balloons, string streamers and pop a cork - it’s time to party – with or without Lotto’s assistance!

Golden Eggs: Peel 6 hard-boiled eggs. Heat 2tbs veg oil over med-heat; cook 1 thinly-sliced brown onion until golden; add 2 finely-chopped tomatoes, 12 fresh curry leaves, 2tsp mustard seeds and 1tsp turmeric; cook, stirring, 2mins. Add 400ml can coconut cream; simmer 10mins; add eggs; cook 1min.

Golden Egg Casserole: Melt 2tbs butter in large pan over med-high heat; add 1c sliced mushrooms and 1 medium green capsicum, chopped; sauté 8mins; remove from heat. Whisk 10 eggs with 1/2c plain flour, 1tsp baking powder, 1/4tsp salt; stir in mushroom mix, 455g cottage cheese, 2c shredded cheddar, 240g cooked pork sausage mince, 6 cooked, crumbled bacon rashers and 60g sliced, drained black olives. Pour into greased oven dish; bake at 200C, 15mins; reduce heat to 175C; bake 15-20mins until set.

Fried Devilled Eggs: Slice 12 hard-boiled eggs in half, lengthwise. Remove yolks to bowl; add 1/4c mayo, 1tbs Dijon mustard, 1tsp lemon zest, 1tbs chopped chives, dash hot sauce, salt and pepper; mash; adjust seasonings. Fill egg whites with this mixture. Heat peanut oil to 175C. Dip eggs into plain flower; then into beaten raw eggs; then in Panko breadcrumbs; gently put eggs into hot oil; fry until golden.

Potato Cakes with Chilli Eggs: Coarsely-grate 550g peeled potatoes; squeeze out as much liquid as possible; set aside on tea towel; grate 1 onion and treat similarly. Heat 2tbs olive oil in large non-stick pan; cook onions, 5mins; stir in potato; mix; fry in an even layer, 15-20mins, until golden underneath. Slide pan under heated grill; cook 5-7mins until golden. Make four indentations on top with spoon; crack an egg into each dip; season; scatter over finely-chopped red chilli, or pinch of dried chilli. Cover; place on hob; cook 4-5mins, depending on how you like your eggs cooked; serve from pan with crusty bread.

WHY ALL THE LONG FACES?

Yippee-i-o! It’s Melbourne Cup time again! You’ve heard the one about the horse entering the bar; and you’ve heard the one about leading a horse to water, but not being able to make him drink. Here’s the answer to both - finally! The horse eagerly cantered up to the bar, but all he was offered to drink was water - that’s why he had the long face!

For those of you in the Northern Hemisphere who may not be aware – The Melbourne Cup is Australia’s major thoroughbred horse race – “the race that stops a nation”! It’s a 3,200metres (1.9888 miles) for three-year olds and over. It’s the richest “two-mile” handicap in the world, and one of the richest horse races. The Melbourne Cup is always held on the first Tuesday in November. The winner of the first Melbourne Cup in 1861 was a bay stallion, “Archer”, ridden by John Cutts.

Melbourne Cup Day is almost a public holiday here in Australia; it’s celebrated throughout the country; some believe it should be declared a public holiday. Between all the sweeps and partying, it should be!

I love Melbourne Cup Day; and always have. I've got the champagne chilling; the prawns and oysters have been ordered, ready to be picked up later today; the smoked salmon has been smoked, and my bets have been laid! The form guide is at the ready!

If you’re looking for me tomorrow – don’t bother! I won’t answer the door or the phone. I’ll be too engrossed watching the lead-up to the race from 6 am; "oohing and aahing" at the fashions on the field; and engrossed by all the races from 10 am to the end of the final race when the final hoof goes over the final line – with no interruptions!

The special race day is held at Flemington Race Course, Melbourne, Victoria.

In the mood of the Day…I’ve spun the little tale below – all past Melbourne Cup winners are highlighted to help you make some sense of my nonsensical ramblings!




The Shocking thing was the Americain looked on very Saintly from the end of the bar while sipping on a Brew. He scratched his White Nose before he accused MacDougall of being a bit of a Windbag! MacDougall Viewed the scene around him. He then nonchalantly tipped his Dark Felt hat, and murmured “What a Nuisance” to the Kiwi from Toparoa who sat on the stool next to him. MacDougall and the Kiwi continued sipping their schooners of ice-cold Haricot beer, preferring to ignore The Trump.

Looking on with a Tawrrific soft glow from the Lantern hanging over the bar highlighting her Empire Rose complexion was Jezabeel, the adopted daughter of Count Cardigan and Prince Foote. As most of you know, Prince Foote is the son of King Ingodas and Marini-Henri of Maraboa, Russia. Count Cardigan, the brother of Lord Fury was a Statesman who had been an Artilleryman at the Battle of Gurner’s Lane. I’m filling you in on a bit of the family history, in case you weren’t aware of the lineage.

Earlier in the day, Peter Pan flew in from the Backwood for a bit of Hi Jinx because out near Wodalla and Merriwee the river was Rising Fast. Peter Pan was a Rain Lover, but he felt it safer and more sensible to Skipton with his Sister Olive who wouldn’t leave without her Gold and Black cloak. She arrived looking like she was going to attend a Gala Supreme, namely the Beldale Ball.

Even Stevens had felt the Might and Power of the Subzero temperatures down Baystone way. He decided it more Efficient to make Just a Dash along Piping Lane grasping his Vintage Crop in his right hand! He’d successfully convinced The Parisian aka Comedy King to join him.

Old Rowley decided to Think Big when he saw a Blue Spec on the horizon. He and Archer, The Quack, cared less that it was a Phar Lap; so off they charged on a Nightmarch to the Delta. For protection they each carried a Carbine, but Sirius, like a Silver Knight guided them along the way. When they reached Newhaven, a Rainbird sang pure and clear like an Evening Peal. Immediately they felt at ease, and even the Light Fingers of Chester, The Grafter, couldn’t alter their relieved, joyous mood. More importantly, they ignored him after his failed attempt to steal The Pearl. He was caught Red Handed; but all that was soon forgotten when the whole bar congratulated Tim Whiffler. Those at the bar overheard him say to Jeune, “Let’s Elope!” What a Don Juan! “Bravo! He sure doesn’t horse around!” Everyone called out in unison, The Revenue in the bar that night paid for the Nightwatch, and then some!

Festive Pizzas: On a floured surface, roll out 1x375g packet puff pastry to 1mm thickness; cut with a small, 4-5cms, cutter; place rounds on large, flat, buttered pastry tray; brush with olive oil. On each round, place a slice of goat’s cheese with a slice of cherry tomato and a slice of yellow tear-drop tomato; brush again with olive oil; sprinkle with black pepper and sprigs of thyme; bake in preheated 210C oven, 12-15mins. Various toppings; prawns, roasted capsicum strips; asparagus, mozzarella, anchovies and black olives.

Scallops with Broccoli Cream Sauce: Cut 24 scallops from the shells; replace onto shells; place on flat baking tray. Make sauce: Melt 20g butter in saucepan; sweat 200g trimmed broccoli and 3 crushed garlic cloves; add 300ml cream, salt and pepper; cook 15mins; process in blender until sauce consistency. Cook the tray of scallops in 220C oven, 2-3mins; spoon a little sauce over scallops; spoon a little sauce over scallops; place 2 scallops and small fork on small plates.

Smoked Salmon Dip: Place 3tbs soft butter, 200g smoked salmon, 1/4c sour cream, 1tbs finely-chopped onion and 2tsp lemon juice in processor; process until smooth. Fold through 1tsp halved capers; season with black pepper. Chill till required. Cream Cheese Croutons: Mash 125g soft curd or cream cheese with 4tbs grated cheddar, gruyere, parmesan or other hard cheese; add plenty of freshly-ground black pepper and chopped parsley or tarragon; stir in well-beaten egg. Spread onto crust-less slices of French bread; top each with a piece of anchovy and halved black olive. Cook in 170C oven, 15mins.

MY NURSERY RHYME 2012 UPDATES!

Jack & Jill

Jack and Jill didn’t go up the hill
To fetch a pail of water
Although, perhaps they oughta

Jack had mischief on his mind
That's why Jill followed behind
To see what she could find

Reaching the top Jack looked around
And much to his surprise he found
Jill already lying on the ground


The Saga of Bo-Peep

Little Bo-Peep has had no sleep
She has no clue when she’ll get any
Because when Bo-Peep left home
Absentmindedly she forgot her comb
Now she has tangled hair of mahogany

Jerry Had a Little Clam

Jerry found a little clam
When the tide was low
And every time that Jerry looked
On a rock he surely kicked his toe


Humpty Dumpty's Dilemma!

Humpty Dumpty had a lot of gall
Humpty went looking for a brawl
And when the crowd left
Humpty became quite bereft
Finding himself all alone
And all he could do was groan

DON’T TRIVIALISE TRIVIA!

In 1864 Australia’s first cookery book was published. It was written by the audacious Edward Abbott. Born in Sydney, Edward Abbott, when still a small boy, moved to Hobart with his family. His father, Edward Snr had taken up a post of Deputy-Judge-Advocate – which was a bit of a mouthful for one so small; so, I guess that’s why Edward Jnr called Edward Snr, “Dad”.

Edward Abbott, Senior, (1766-1832) was a soldier and public servant. Born in Montreal, Canada, Abbott Snr ended up in Australia in 1799 after a stint in England recuperating. Abbott had been here earlier in 1790.

After a few hectic years in Sydney; some of which included his opposition to Governor William Bligh (yes...he of the Mutiny on the Bounty saga);and a few more in England - a long, long story - he returned to Sydney.

Abbott Snr., then sailed on board the "Emu" for Hobart Town,in Van Diemen's Land (now known as "Tasmania") where he arrived with his wife and three children in February 1815.

Who knew that emus could swim! But then, I suppose with those long legs of theirs emus could walk across Bass Strait at low tide; perhaps, the Abbott family hitched a ride on the emu's back!

When of a suitable age, Edward Junior became a clerk to his father aka "Dad" in the court until 1824. Fifteen years later in 1839, Ed Jnr., founded the “Hobart Town Advertiser”. He was its editor and publisher until 1842. Edward then became a landowner on the Derwent River. Actually he set up camp on the banks and surrounding area of the river. It’d be a difficult to own and operate land in the river! He was a busy boy, our Ed! His cook book combined recipes of the Old Country with techniques from the developing colony down under.

Back in England many who purchased the handsome, leather-bound volume shuddered when they saw kangaroo recipes leaping off the glossy pages! Scratching their heads, they tweaked their imperial moustaches and pulled at their mutton chops. In the meantime, their harried cooks sweated in the galleys wondering if they had a cauldron large enough in which to scald an emu before its plucking! Added to their quandary was trying to locate a frying pan broad enough to fry an emu egg or two. After much deliberation, it was decided numerous omelettes were better options by far for the families’ breakfasts.

Not deterred by the book’s peculiarities, curiosity overcame its readers. In overwhelming wonder, they continued to turn the pages, many of which depicted brilliant colour-plates illustrating the exotic, unusual recipes therein.

After greasy fingerprints and flour particles (and the odd emu feather) were removed, the books were strategically placed onto shelves in the elegant libraries of the stately homes; rooms of opulent grandeur, additionally embellished with sculptures, paintings and ornate furnishings. There the books sat, never to be opened again until a century or so later when the National Trust stepped in.

That’s my take on it; but, it doesn’t mean it’s true! The parts about the book being the first of its kind in Australia and written by Edward Abbott Jnr, and the tale about his Dad are factual; the rest – take with a grain of salt!

Way back in 1864 Ted shared his asparagus recipe with readers. Our ancestors enjoyed the succulent green shoots long before we did. Those of us who grew up post World War ll only knew the canned variety because all the fields of asparagus had been cultivated for the visiting American forces. Fortunately, over the past few decades fresh asparagus has returned to our green groceries, and onto our plates; plates of the porcelain kind, that is; not those colour-plates in Ed’s cookery book!

A bit of trivium to amuse, and then, promptly forget! “Trivium”…singular for “trivia”! Don’t get me started! I love trivia; bundles of trivia. Trivia is fun. Why my brain is riddled with so many trivia is a conundrum! No wonder my head feels heavy at times!

Roasted Asparagus Soup: Place 900g trimmed thick asparagus spears on paper-lined baking sheet; roast 10mins in 230C oven; turn spears; sprinkle with ½ sliced onion and 2 garlic cloves; roast 10-12mins. Less cooking time if spears are thin. In blender, blend 1/2c warm veg or chick stock with 1 heaped tablespoon raw cashews and 1/8tsp white pepper. Select several of the best-looking spears; remove tops; set aside for garnish. Cut remaining spears into pieces; add to blender along with onion and garlic and 1-1/2c stock; blend until smooth. Heat in saucepan; pour into bowls; garnish with grated lemon and reserved asparagus.

Wok-Seared Chicken & Asparagus: Heat 1tbs toasted sesame oil in wok over high heat; add 700g fresh asparagus, cut into 1-inch pieces; cook, stirring, 2mins; add 455g chicken strips; cook, stirring, 4mins; stir in 1-inch pieces of four shallots, 2tbs minced, fresh ginger, 1tbs oyster sauce and 1tsp chilli-garlic sauce; cook, stirring until chicken just cooked through. Stir in 1/4c shelled, salted, coarsely-chopped pistachios; serve immediately.

Beer-Battered Asparagus: Dipping Sauce: Combine 1/2c mayonnaise, 1tsp lemon juice, 1/2tsp zest and 1/4tsp pepper in bowl; chill, covered, until ready to use. Whisk together 1c plain flour, 1tsp salt, 1tbs finely-grated lemon zest and 1/4ts pepper; add 1c lager; whisk until smooth. Heat 4c vegetable oil in deep saucepan to med-high. Cut 455g trimmed, medium asparagus into 3-inch pieces; submerge spears into batter; let excess batter drip off; transfer spears, one at a time, to oil; stir gently to keep spears from sticking together; cook 2-3mins; keep warm in oven on paper towel-lined tray.

ABSTEMIOUS MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

Everything in moderation; that’s the plan! I won’t, and don't tell porkies; there’s no point going down that path. I have no desire or need to do so. I’ve nothing to hide or feel ashamed about. There have been times in my life when seduced by the mood of the moment, and by the contagious company of others, I’ve drunk too much (alcohol, not water or milk), but I caused no harm to anyone. I was the one who suffered the hang-overs; nobody else. If there is any “tut-tutting” and rolling of eyes happening because of my remarks, reflect upon the old saying about he or she who casts the first stone etc., etc,. and so on and so forth!

Nowadays, for me, it’s a drought between drinks. Water and coffee are still high on the list, of course. Don’t worry, though - I’ve not turned into a wowser! In the words of Buddy Holly …“That’ll be the day!” A sip or two once in a blue moon, and oft times not even then is more the case with me these days.

I always have a tipple on Melbourne Cup Day – that’s a given; and if the mood takes, I’ll even dare lash out on my birthday! Damn birthdays! They’re a clear sign of getting older! I received a shock the other day when I realised that I’m no longer 35! See what sobriety does to you! I might have to reconsider my habits!

Another reason for imbibing infrequently is these days I don't entertain as often as I once did. I used to entertain a lot, but I ceased doing so a couple of years ago. I've done more than my fair share of catering for others over the years, both for personal pleasure and professionally. However, if and when I do cater for friends; or am being catered for by them it's never a "dry argument", if you know what I mean! I could never have a luncheon or dinner party without a few bottles of good wine; and a Frangelico, Grand Marnier or Drambuie or two to complete the picture. (Substitute your own personal preferences)!

A couple of months ago I did celebrate some very unexpected, exciting news with friends. I unscrewed the top off a bottle of quality red, which I enjoyed without one iota of guilt. In the meantime, my hosts contentedly sipped on their white wine. They, too, showed no remorse between sips. We were not a remorseful trio.

It’s not every day that I get asked for my permission by the State and National Libraries of Queensland and Australia, respectively, for them to archive some of my writings. It was a momentous moment worthy of celebration to my way of thinking; and it’s not often I sit way up there on Cloud Nine! I always thought I might go down in history one day – but not that way! I’m not as infamous as Ned Kelly, after all! My wicked, wicked ways have all been in vain! I should’ve tried harder!

Moderation applies to the intake of food, too. There’s little I don’t enjoy or eat, but I do try to exercise some restraint. "Some" perhaps being the operative word. I have to be honest and admit there are times I succumb to my lack of will power; and all restraining flies out the window; it doesn't matter what window it is...it's not always the kitchen window. The others have their turn, too!

A stranger, an elderly woman I’ve never laid my eyes on before reprimanded me the other day because I bought a bottle of homemade guava jelly at the “Green Shed”. I'd not eaten guava jelly in years; and I love fresh guavas. The "Green Shed" operates up here on the mountain upon which I dwell every Sunday morning. Local growers sell their supposedly "organic" produce to all-comers.

Lordy! Lordy! I was told by the stranger in no uncertain terms that I was buying a jar of sugar! Oh! For goodness sake! Taking things to extremes is a bit over-the-top, in my humble opinion - an opinion I intending sticking to! It’s not as if I came home and devoured the whole jar in one sweet mouthful; although, if I had that would have been my business, and my business only; nobody else. Up until now as I write, I’ve spread a mere morsel on one piece of toast only; and that’s no porky!

And then, to top it all off, as I got into my car, the stranger, not one to give up, then began to enforce her eating philosophy upon me! She told me that she only ate raw foods; the way "God intended people to eat"!

It was then I snapped. That was the proverbial "straw"! I'd heard enough of her self-righteous sprouting.

My retort was; "Well, God intended me to enjoy everything...so I do!" I turned on the ignition and drove away, leaving her standing with her eyes agog, mouth open, and a plastic container of raw food in her hands.


I talk to anyone; anywhere; any time; but I hate being lectured!

Perhaps I should revert to the teachings of my childhood and abstain from speaking to strangers!

My mantra: Enjoy life; enjoy the good things in life; enjoy everything in moderation. Whatever floats your boat – just don’t go overboard! However, never curtail your enjoyment of the good people in your life.


Pork Mince Pies: Heat oil in pan; brown 1.5kg pork mince and 2 finely-chopped onions over high heat; stir in 2 diced carrots, 100g peas and 2 potatoes, diced; season; toss in a little thyme. Add 300ml stock; bring to boil; add 100g gravy powder mixed in 80ml water; bring to boil; reduce heat; simmer 20mins; cool. Fill individual pie ramekins; cover with rounds of puff pastry; crimp edges to secure; brush with beaten egg. Bake in preheated 200C oven until golden; serve hot with tomato chutney.

Sweet & Sour Pork: Cut 350g pork fillet into 5x1cm strips; place in bowl with 1tbs soy sauce and pepper; stir to coat; stir in 2tsp cornflour; set aside. Drain 1x440g can pineapple pieces in natural juice; set aside juice and fruit. To make sauce: mix together 1tbs each cornflour, brown sugar and rice wine vinegar, 2tbs dry sherry, 2tbs tomato sauce, 3tbs salt-reduced soy sauce and reserved juice. Set aside.

Cook 140g egg noodles in boiling water, 3mins, or according to the packet instructions; drain well; set aside.

Heat wok until really hot; add 1tbs sunflower oil; swirl to coat wok. Add pork; brown 1min; then stir-fry over high heat, 3–4mins. Remove pork with a slotted spoon; set aside. Heat 1tbs oil in wok; add 80g baby corn, quartered lengthways; cook 1min; add 1 julienned carrot, 1/2 red and 1/2 green capsicum, cut into 1-inch pieces, 1 chopped garlic clove and 1tbs finely-diced ginger; cook 1min. Sprinkle over 5tbs water; let steam, 2–3mins. Add sauce mixture, stir well; bring to boil. Add pork, noodles, pineapple and 300g bean sprouts; heat through, stirring and tossing. Add 4 spring onions, diagonally sliced and 1tsp sesame oil.

WILDERNESS OF THE HEART

In fragile silence I sit melancholy reminiscence
Questioning when where how our love went astray
Suffocated by the harshness of yet another day
An emotional wasteland pondering the rudiments
Of yesterday

Life unmercifully relentless in its pursuit of me
An endless chase masquerading as hope and dreams
Haunting taunting shadows a tormenting banshee
A twilight zone of love's pain of unheard screams
Where to flee

Caustic angry words spoken treasured time wasted
Lost forever in the outer perimeters of my memory
Wishing to mend bridges instead feeling alienated
Misery embroidered on my heart its secret territory
Sorrow captured

Love’s affection passion desire imperative to living
Eternally lost helpless in heart's barren wilderness
Controlled by desperate despair powerfully unforgiving
Emotions carelessly tossed asunder alone and aimless
Heart aching


Poem written by Lee

A WORLD OF CONTRADICTION, CONFUSION AND DECEPTION

Life is awash with contradictions! Constantly we’re force-fed contradictions. Consciously or not, there are even times when we readily we accept more!

On the one hand we’re told not to laugh at our own jokes; and then on the other we’re told to laugh at ourselves!

We’re advised to keep a stiff upper lip; then we’re told to release our emotions! “Let it all go…let it flow!” (I've tried and tried to stiffen my upper lip, but I've not been able to find a lotion or cream that stiffens said lip. A tick latched onto it once; that little blighter not only caused my lip to stiffen, but to swell to triple its normal size, as well. I supposed I could try Botox - but then it would be better to stiffen both lips, wouldn't it?)! Is there no end to this train of thought?

It’s written: “the only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing”. Why, then, do we spend our lives studying, learning, observing, researching and absorbing in an effort to gain wisdom in all things? If, at the end of a life spent expending such effort nothing is achieved, why bother?

Napoleon Bonaparte advised: “The best way to keep your word is not give it”! Was he trying to confuse his enemies? He not only confused his enemies, but his mates, as well.

Mark Twain told us to never put off until tomorrow what we can do the day after tomorrow just as well! By taking his advice that could make the day after tomorrow very busy!

Who was the illogical idiot who, in an unguarded moment, uttered out loud this thought - “Sometimes you have to let go of the one you love to find out if there is really something there”? I note that whoever wrote or said these words chose to remain anonymous. That was a logical decision!

It’s understandable why Confucius was named “Confucius”. He composed confused sayings! For example; “Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart”. One thing of which I’m certain; my whole heart always goes with me everywhere I go! I never leave any part of it behind! It take the whole lot with me. Where would I leave said piece – in the fridge; under my pillow; on the table?

Here’s another one of Confucius’ ditties: “Man who waits for roast duck to fly into mouth, must wait very, very long time”! Should that be “velly, velly wong time?

Confuse-Us also said: “A cannibal is person who likes to see other people stewed”!

The world is a large cauldron full of confusion; Confucius certainly added his share of ingredients to the pot!

Voltaire wasn’t confused 300 or so years ago when he vehemently declared: “I hate women because they always know where everything is!”

How right he was! You’ll get no contradiction from me!


And then there are the current-day academics; those who get government grants to do researches - they have far too much time on their hands! A while back I read the following report:

“After much research academics found that by switching to organic produce such switching could help us live longer as well as keeping us healthier and slimmer – fruit and vegetables grown without artificial fertilizers etc., can extend one’s lifespan - by 25 days for men and 17 days for women!”

My! Oh! My! That’s worth consideration!

Confused Mashed “Spuds”: Cut 1 cauliflower into pieces; cook to well done; drain well; quickly pat dry; puree hot cauli with 1tbl softened cream cheese, 1/4c grated Parmesan, ½tsp minced garlic, pinch of salt or powdered chicken stock and pepper until almost smooth; garnish with chopped chives and butter pats.

Mediterranean Lamb Stew: Chop 500g lamb, 1 onion, 1 large red capsicum and 2 small hot chillies (or crushed chillies to taste). Heat 3tbl x-virgin olive oil in casserole; add lamb; seal; remove to bowl to keep the juices. Add more oil; fry onion 2-3mins; add capsicum and chilli; cook 4mins; season. Return lamb and juices; add 2 bay leaves and a splash of Worcestershire; add 1/3-1/2 bottle dry white wine; keep heat high; reduce wine; add 1 can chopped tomatoes; cook 6mins; reduce heat; cover, simmer 1hr. Add 1 can drained chickpeas; cook 30-45mins.

Beef Stew & Dumplings: Pat 1kg beef, cut into 1-inch pieces, dry; heat pan; add oil; brown beef in batches; set aside in bowl. Fry 3 large sliced onions and 150g sliced bacon; cook 6mins; add 3 carrots, cut into chunks, 200g halved button mushrooms. Add 3tbls flour; cook 3mins, scraping bottom of pan; add 2c beef stock, 345ml beer, 2tbs tomato paste, 1 can diced tomatoes, 2 bay leaves, 2tsp mixed herbs, 1tbl brown sugar and 1tbl Worcestershire; bring to boil; cover; cook on low heat, 1-1/2hrs. Dumplings: Combine 50g melted butter, 1 egg and 50g grated cheese; add to 100g S.R. flour, 1tsp baking powder;(add some mixed herbs, if desired); add a little water if needed; roll into 8 balls; place on top of stew 15mins before end of cooking; cover; cook 15mins or so!

ARRRRRRGGGGGHHHH!!! WHY???????

Why? Oh! Why? Grrrrrrrrr!!!!!!

As you can see, I decided to make a change...it has been said that a change is as good as a holiday! Don't believe everything those anonymous "they" tell you!

So here I sit...it's Saturday morning and I thought I'd do a bit of fiddling around with the layout/template of my blog. How silly can I be? Very...is the obvious answer!

In the process of altering the template...I lost all comments...all the comments generously written by you good people, my blogger friends...every single comment - from when I started writing my blog up until this very minute!

And, I'm not a very happy chappy, I can tell you!

I'm more than frustrated! I'm angry. I'm disappointed! And I'm bemused! Why, just by changing the look of one's blog, are all past comments are lost? It doesn't make sense.

To top it off, I can find nowhere where it allows me to revert to my original template; the one I was using just before I changed to this current one!

Grrrrrrrrr!!!! I should have known better...and left well enough alone!

Be warned!!

I think I might pour myself a glass of red! At least it will match the new background on my blog...and my face!

ROUX THE DAY!

Be warned! That person driving around in my sparkling white Audi A4 I espy every time I go out will rue the day if I ever catch up with him! And as for that other fellow; the one I spotted yesterday driving my glistening new silver-grey Audi A8 Coupe , my second car for special occasions, he, too, will rue the day if I nab him Could it have been Christian Grey?!!! As for me - I’ll rue the day I stop daydreaming!

One day when we were kids, my older brother, Graham and I were lucky we didn’t rue the day we fired arrows at our grandmother’s “Bombay Bloomers” (the nickname given to ladies’ generously-sized, unflattering briefs made with flesh-coloured interlock fabric back when I was a kid). Not that our grandmother was a woman of liberal proportions; she wasn’t. She was tall and slim. I’m perplexed as to why she favoured panties of such vast dimensions. Maybe the size permitted breezes to flow freely; ideal, cool attire of largesse that prevented the wearer from expiring. Summers in Gympie are hot; however not as hot as Bombay.

My brother and I had been reprimanded by Nana. What we’d done to raise her ire, I can’t recall. No doubt, we deserved her wrath. Our pleas of innocence fell on deaf ears; she would have no part of our nonsense. Nana told us to go downstairs to play; and to try to behave ourselves while doing so.

Spying her bloomers on the clothes line under the house, we decided to vent our frustrations on the overblown not-so-brief briefs! Being fans of Robin Hood we always had our trusty bows and arrows at the ready! We never knew when they might come in handy. Like expert archers, we shot arrow after arrow at Nana’s unattractive, baggy knickers. With each strike, we gleefully growled: “Take that, Nana! Take that!”

Graham and I were ignorantly unaware Nana stood watching through the palings. In amused silence, she chose not to interrupt the enjoyment we were having wreaking vengeance upon her bloomers. Chuckling, Nana retreated back up the stairs, without even get her knickers in a knot! We were lucky she had a good sense of humour, otherwise we would most certainly have rued our actions. Years later, Nana divulged what she’d witnessed that morning; we shared her laughter. The story became a part of our family’s folklore.

I doubt there are many who haven’t lived to rue a thoughtless action or careless statement. I’ve rued a few, and then some. However, I do always try my best not to be rude, even if there have been times I’ve been confronted with and affronted by the rudeness of others.

There is little, if anything, to be gained from such behaviour. More than often, the gratification is instant, shallow and fleeting. Sometimes I’ve failed in not being rude; and, afterwards I’ve rued the times I was rude.

The lady whose bloomers we bombarded with arrows that hot summer's morning taught us to mind our manners; to treat others how we’d like to be treated; that it’s best to take a deep breath and walk away, rather than live to rue a blue that may ensue.

It’s best to eschew a blue, it’s true; than it is to pursue a blue that you may eventually rue!

Our grandmother passed on many sage words; wisdoms I’ve tried to adhere to throughout my life; and long after her passing. Of course, the operative word is "tried". I've not always been successful in my efforts, but then, on the other hand, there are many times that I have been successful, too.

It may appear to some that I didn't show respect that morning so many, many years ago; but, at least, our Nana gleaned humour from the actions of my brother and me. She appreciated the innocence behind our harmless childish moments of revenge.

Roux: Heat 4tbs pan drippings and/or butter over medium heat; add 6tbs flour all at once; whisk vigorously. When mixture thins and starts to bubble, reduce heat to low; cook 3-4mins; stir occasionally. Roux can be used immediately to thicken room temp liquids. Cool roux to room temp if thickening hot liquid. Tightly wrapped, roux can be refrigerated for up to a month. Break off pieces; use as needed.

Tasty Cheese Sauce: Heat 2tbs butter over med-heat; stir in 2tbs flour; cook, stirring, about 1min; add 1/4tsp salt and dash of pepper; gradually add 1c milk. Cook over low heat, stirring until thickened; add 1/3 cup sharp cheese, 1/2tsp dry mustard and a dash of garlic powder; cook, stirring until cheese melts.

Seafood Gumbo: Cut okra into ¼-inch slices; enough for 6 cups; bake 10mins. Coat large heavy-base saucepan with oil; cook 1-1/2 coarsely-chopped onions until translucent; add 1c sliced celery, 8 finely-chopped garlic cloves, ½ green bell pepper, chopped, and the baked okra. Add 5tbs roux; mix thoroughly; add 6 roughly-chopped tomatoes; bring to boil; add 10-12c quality seafood stock; mix thoroughly; cover; bring to boil; cook 20mins. In separate pan, sauté 500g shelled prawns, 1min; then along with 2 or 3 cleaned sand crabs, chopped into chunks, add to gumbo; cook 10mins; add slices from 1 lemon and chopped shallots. Serve with rice.

Bombay Chicken: In a large re-sealable plastic bag, combine: 1-1/2c yoghurt, 1/4c lemon juice, 2tbs each chilli powder, paprika and olive oil, 1-1/2tsp salt, ½ to 1tsp cayenne, 1/2tsp each ground ginger and garlic powder, 1/4tsp ground cardamom and 1/8tsp ground cinnamon. Add 2kg bone-in, skinned chicken thighs to bag; turn to coat; refrigerate overnight. Coat grill with oil or spray. Drain and discard marinade; grill chicken, covered, over med-hot, 10-15mins on each side. Serve with mixed fruit-flavoured rice.

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!