Maggie and milly and molly and may

Maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea
 
 
Without a heartbeat of a lie, I would marry any man who presented me with a book of E.E.Cummings poems.
 
 
*Poem lifted from Poets.org

Wonderful waste of time

I'm supposed to be getting my butt into gear and organising my very own Etsy store, but first I figured I'd do some 'research'. By research I mean, trolling some of my favourite Etsies and falling in love with them all over again. Oh, and how I love Timeless Vixen! Everything in her store is amazingly lovely and amazingly far out of my budget. This makes me sad, bad doesn't stop me dreaming about how pefectly summery I'd feel in this:

Or how much better my work ethic would be in this lovely dress/jacket combo:

And I just know all the boys would be swooning with such a sweet bit-o-sparkle:

Elephant dreams

How sweet are these pillow cases from Sunday Morning Dreaing! I love really nice linens, and never seem to be able to find what I want in the right size for my bed. So I buy far too many pillow cases. For me the bonus of these is the beautiful elephant sleeping beside me. I think he'd look super cool on my bed dreaming elephant-sized dreams. Maybe he'd even magically bring my own super-sized dreams to life. And in the meantime he could be my temporary boyfriend - until I find a real love.

All my friends are loved up at the moment. It's fun. They giggle like school girls, swoon over the mention of their love's name, and babble constantly about sweet moments and cute quips. I love that. I love the joy the big L (Love) brings, the excitement the little l (lust) creates, and the crazy-talking, big-dreaming, heart-run-away-with-your-head delight when someone is smitten. It fills the rooms, and the life of someone more completely than any other feeling, and seems to have the ability to wash away the greys.

"Sorry, you're probably completely sick of hearing about this," they apologise.

I promise I'm not. 

Keep talking. Keep dreaming. Keep loving. It looks good on you. 

When I linger no longer

It would seem to most quite morbid to think about your own death in detail. In particular, to prepare arrangements for your funeral when you're perfectly healthy. But it's something that has always been on my mind, and something I think is actually quite important.
As a kid I was surrounded by death quite a bit. My childhood home was right next to the town cemetry, so my brother and I would spend afternoons and weekends wandering the graves, making up life stories for the brave soldiers, beloved grandparents, and sweet children 'sleeping' next door.
But it wasn't just the neighbours that kept death in the forefront of my mind. My family has long had a history of illness - my nanna had breast cancer and suffered a number of strokes, my granddad was run over by a tractor and suffered mental illness, my mother has been pronounced clinically dead on 8 separate occassions - meaning we frequented hospitals quite often as kids. As a result the fickleness and fragility of life was never something I was shielded from.
I watched as my mother suffered through heart and brain surgery, as her best friend fought off breast, throat, lung, skin and finally bone cancer, as my nanna spent the last month of her life in a medical coma after a severe stroke. And then I stood by as, one by one, we buried each of my grandparents, boxing up their lives as though they were a theatre production that had run its course.
The thing that stuck in my mind, even at thirteen, was the agony, the distraught emptyness that seemed to hang in the air as my mother chose hymns for the funeral, or my uncle struggled to write a eulogy that could honour my Granddad when all he wanted was to have him back.
Funerals hurt. That doesn't really need to be said. But the thing is we - living, thriving, breathing human beings - avoid that pain until it hits us, or our loved ones, square in the face. I don't want that. I don't want that for my husband, or my children, or (God forbid) my parents. So I've planned my funeral as I'd plan any other event in my life. I know that I want to be cremated, and that I want my funeral in the early evening. I am adamant that Amazing Grace would be the absolute worst choice for my funeral song ever. Instead, I'd like something that celebrates the people who have come to see me off. That thanks them, and offers them joy and peace. And, most importantly, something I would have listened to myself, if it were them and not me no longer here.
I heard The Parting Glass the other night while watching some late-night TV. The gent singing is Luke Macfarlane whos voice, I think, makes this version more beautiful and haunting than any other I could find. I knew immediately that this was the song I would like playing as I say my final goodbyes. It is sad, true, but it speaks of a full life and bequests love and joy to those remaining.
I will smile from whereever I end up to know my life is toasted with a good whiskey, a smile, and this song:

Words in the winter wind

Two men I have loved all my adult life are two men I will never meet.
The first of these is a love I learnt of from my first real love. He sent me a poem which made me both cry and smile and which, even now, after hundrends (if not thousands) of reads, I still discover anew each time:

Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town
(E. E. Cummings)
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did


Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain


children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more


when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her


someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream


stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)


one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was


all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.


Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

The second is a man I discovered accidentally, flipping idly through a library book in a thirteen-year-old angsty haze. He was simple and yet profound. The way we often forget life is:

 Winter Trees
 (William Carlos Williams)
All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.




The Red Wheelbarrow
(William Carlos Williams)
so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

*Poems courtesy of FamousPoetsandPoems.com

Donut touch my cake!

So I innocently wandered onto Citrus and Candy earlier this evening, thinking to have a bit of a browse and drool before dinner. And that's where I fell victim to her cooking wiles, overcome with the desperate need to bake her Apple 'Donut' Cakes. Dear Lord! If I am to ever commit a crime so violent it leads me to death row, I will be sure to ask for these as my last meal.
The recipe calls for buerre noisette, or brown butter, which gives the cakes an incredible moorishness. When they come out of the oven they're rolled immediately in cinnamon sugar, hence the donut reference. The sugar combined with the beuatifully crisp top is absolutely the most perfect smile-inducing moment. And the apple - well it's a fruit, so that makes them healthy, right?
My mother, who usually complains that my baked goods are too sweet, sheepishly asked for a second one and gobbled it down like a little girl with an ice-cream cone.
I somehow restrained myself to one. Well, I tried to...      

I do(n't)

My grandad brought my nanna her morning cuppa in bed every morning of their married life. It was a ritual that lasted from their honeymoon, right until the day she died.
My mother and father, as much as they yell and scream at each other, always go to bed and chat about their day. They discuss the weather, politics, and their children. I know because I would listen to them at night when I was a kid.
My friend, Kao, is planning her future in tandem with her boyfriend's, even though they've only been together seven months, and even though he's been on the other side of the world for the last five of those. She says she's sure because everything she wants, he is.
I've had love on my mind a bit lately. Between my aunt and uncle's rocky marrriage, friends saying 'I do' for all the wrong reasons, and a dodgy proposal by a friend desperate for an Australian Visa I guess I could be a bit cynical about the whole thing. But I'm not. I'm a romantic at heart, convinced that love - real love, not the stuff in movies - really does exist.
See, the thing is...well, I guess it's that if I don't believe, if I give in to the relentless notion that the heart-exploding, swept-off-my-feet, can't-breath-without-that-person love doesn't exist, then why play the game? And what about life without that comfortable, trackpants-and-no-make-up, cleaning-up-my-vomit, sharing-denture-cream, worn-in love. It's not worth the sacrifice, the energy, or the hurt. It's not worth saying no to a second helping of cake, watching movies I know I'll hate, waxing, shaving, bleaching, or tanning. It's not worth being polite to his obnoxious sister, dirty-minded father, or self-righteous mother. The whole relationship game becomes pointless. And so does everything that goes with it.
When my friend, let's call him Harry because it's suitably British, 'proposed' to me (whilst we were playing scrabble no less) I started thinking about what would make me enter into a fake marriage. How much cash would it take me to say yes? And the answer hit me immediately - none. I just wouldn't do it. It's not a matter of the illegality of the situation (although I'm sure that would have been the next issue), or the complete and utter rediculousness of the idea. It's simply about a promise.
Again, I'm a romatic. But I'm also a traditionalist, and firm believer in honouring your word. When you stand there and pledge forever, that's exactly what you're pledging - forever. Not 'until my visa comes through'. Not 'until I find a better offer'. Not 'until I get sick of you/you get fat'. Forever. For me marriage doesn't have an out, there's no escape clause. And I refuse to enter into it with anyone who believes there is. Because when (if) I do get married it will be forever, good or bad, for better or for worse. The poor sucker is stuck with me (and I with him) until death finally drags us apart.
I don't believe things can't be worked out. I don't believe there's a better option. If you once loved that person enough to promise them forever, then forever it is. And if you're not sure you can hang out til forever then for goodness sake don't get married. Don't do it to hide your sexual persuasion, or to please a pushy parent, or just because all your friends are doing it. And certainly don't do it just to get a visa. I mean, really? There's all sorts of problems with that.
I'm sure I probably sound like an uptight cow, preaching about the values of good old-fashioned Christian love. But I'm not. I'm just a girl who honestly believes that there's a guy out there just waiting to share forever with her. I guess you could say I believe in the Disney moment:

 Do you believe in happily ever after?

Alastair McLeod's nuts

Tonight is cold. Today was cold. And I’m still a wee bit sick. You’d hardly expect me to jumping around in excitement would you? BUT…Even with a day of little no sunshine and a cough which threatens to dislodge both my lungs, today was my favourite day in a long while. Why, you ask (ok, so you don’t really care. Humour me, yeah).

Today Darling mother and I, after a night of craftiness with the ever-fabulous Wabi and friends, headed out to a local food and arts festival. We tried jams and jellies, dukkahs and dips, and a rather delish ice-cream (because it’s never too cold for dessert). We ran into Wabi there as well and she tagged along with us, laughing at my childish excitement all the while. You see, as much as I love food - and as much as I adore free stuff - my real purpose for traipsing around in the cold was to see my very favourite chef in the whole world. Alastair McLeod just happened to be cooking at the festival today!
Who? Alastair McLeod is an Irish-Australian chef, probably most famous for his boisterous bouts on the Australian version of Ready Steady Cook. He is also head chef at Brett’s Wharf, touted as Brisbane’s best seafood restaurant and the place on top of my “must visit” restaurant list. He has cooked at a number of five-star restaurants around the world, and even worked at the Michelin-rated Da Giovanni in Torino, Italy.
But that’s not why I love him. His use of new and fun ways to cook - like today’s five-minute berry sorbet, made using dry ice - and his strong belief in continued learning, mean his food is always on the cutting-edge of foodie fashion. He’s also big on growing the next generation of top chefs, actively involving himself in apprentice education. AND (and this is the best bit) he’s a champion of supporting local food and local producers, believing that sourcing food locally cuts down travel, creating fresher, better-tasting food while lowering our carbon footprint at the same time.
Mr McLeod is passionate about his food, the way it is prepared, and the process the produce goes through before getting to him. He’s also passionate about educating others and creating a food experience revolving around the simple joy of the food, not the snobbery and arrogance which seems to have become a part of the whole foodie culture. And he’s wickedly funny to boot, telling jokes about horse’s appendages and offering us a taste of his nuts (wink wink, nudge nudge), throughout his cooking demo.

His comrade in the kitchen today, Matt Golinski, is a champion in his own right. Mr Golinski also supports the Slow Food Movement and actively promotes the consumption of in-season fare (he claims to only eat strawberries when they’re in season in his local area—imagine going more than half a year without a strawberry!). Throw in his cheeky wit (kitchen condoms for your cheese-making?), and he was an adequate competitor in today’s cooking war.

Wanna see some photos?

Alastair getting saucy. 

Matt talking about perfect potato pillows (aka gnochi)

Dry-ice-assisted sorbet in the making

Doing cheffy things

 Serious face during his (impressive) rant about buying local

Mr McLeod's wild Barra with pan-roasted vegetables and caramlised nuts

 Deconstructed cheesecake and berry sorbet (YUM!)

Too cool for school

Two posts in one day. Hurrah!
This is just a heads up for you to check out an awesome blog. Style Rookie is an incredibly witty, intelligent, and rediculously cool blog all about fashion and fun. And the coolest bit. The writer: fourteen years old!
Dear Tavi, if you ever read my blog, I think you're awesome. Can I be you for a day?

Treats for mum

Dear Mum,
Today I'd like to thank you for growing me in your belly for nine months, and then going through the agony of childbirth so I could be here. Thanks for feeding me, clothing me, and looking after me when I'm sick. For teaching me to read, write, and dream. Thank you for teaching me manners, punishing me even when I thought you were being unfair, and explaining the difference between organised chaos and mess.
Thank you for dealing with my small dramas and my big catastrophies. For laughing with me, crying for me, and standing silent when I needed to yell at someone. For the Tuppaware, the sheets, and the spare couch. Thank you for keeping secrets, telling white lies, and turning a blind eye sometimes. Thanks for listening, understanding, and explaining. Thank you for allowing me to make mistakes, and for being there to clean up the mess.
Thanks for the music lessons, the netball Saturdays, and the birthday sleepovers. For the Barbies, the overly-large stereo system, and the over-priced party dress. Thank you for taking the time to help me move house, find my direction, and change my mind. Thanks for helping me learn to sew, teaching me to cook, and giving me the skills and recipes I need to keep me going both in the kitchen and in life.
Happy Mother's Day
Dotty


Darling Mum's Light and Fluffy Pikelets
4eggs
4cups SR flour
3cups milk
8tbsp sugar
4tbsp butter, chopped
1.5tbsp golden syrup
1. Whisk eggs until light and fluffy. Add sugar and continue to whisk, adding in butter to combine, followed by the syrup (it will get lumpy, don't worry, the flour and milk will make it all better). Add the flour and milk alternately, one cup at a time, whisking well between additions.
2. Heat an electric fry pan (you can do it stove top but a fry pan seems to cook them more evenly), and brush lightly with butter. Drop large spoonfuls into pan, cooking until the bubbles appear on the top. Flip and cook for a further 60-90secs. Remove, spread with lashing of butter and your favourite topping. Save some for mum.  
 

Spooning

I'm sick. I have some kind of flu. Usually when I get a flu I wait it out and let it get better on its own, which inevitably leads to a trip to the doctor two weeks in and an endless round of medications and return visits. This time I figured I'd be good and catch it at the start, so off I trot to the doctor expecting a pat on the back for being so health conscious. Instead she tells me I'm not sick enough. Not sick enough! So I trudge home and deal with it by downing panadol at every opportunity and emptying tissue boxes with rapid succession. And still I feel sick and miserable.
The miserableness comes less from being sick, and much more from just being cold. Winter is settling in slowly, and as it does the nights become less and less comfortable. I hate winter. Well, not completely. I love winter clothing - patterned stockings, soft scarves, beautiful leather gloves, and lovely jackets. But the cold wind, the dry air, the dark mornings and early sunsets? Yuck.
For me the worst part is going to bed. I hate having to get into a cold bed and lie, shivering, by myself while it warms up. I love having a warm body to snuggle into, to wake up with warm breath on my shoulder. For me, winter is the time when being single means being alone the most. It's the time when I pine for a someone to steal covers from, to keep me awake with their snoring, and to huddle with under the covers giggling about the silly things that happened in each other's days. Winter is the time when, more than anything, I want this:

Picture ripped from a bedding catalogue via Google Images. Was looking for a fantastic artwork but nobody seems to like spooning as much as me.

Freefalling

Last night a gentleman took me to heaven. With his hands and mouth he comforted, caressed, and thrilled me for hours. The gentleman was John Mayer. And no, (sadly) I did not sleep with him.
My friend Vodka and I were lucky enough to score front row (!) tickets to his Brisbane Concert. I'm not sure who was more excited, although I would suggest she would be considered more of a die-hard fan - she could guess the song simply by seeing which guitar he picked up! That said by the end of the night I had rekindled my love affair with John (yes, we are on first name basis - he looked at me dammit!), and only wish he was playing again tonight.
Yes, the media have given him a grilling lately, and he may not have the glitz and showiness of say Pink but, putting that aside I would suggest he gives good gig. In fact, the best of gig. His fingers move across the guitar like he is caressing a woman, and (save a tragic drop at the end) Mr Mayer moves around the stage with such ownership of the moment you can't take your eyes from him. And then he sings. Wow. I've spent many an hour trying to come up with the words to aptly describe his voice but, truth to tell, it's impossible. There's a smoothness there that lulls and calms you, and yet an underlying raspiness that's all sex and badness. It's good and evil perfectly combined. It makes it easy to see why the girls love him.
Now of course this magic, while almost totally John-created, also comes in part from his fantastic band. They were brilliant! And I have to give a shoutout to Robbie simply because he looks so very much like one Harold Bishop from Ramsay Street (of Neighbours soap fame, for all you non Aussies and Brits).
We drove home, V and I, thoroughly exhausted and exquisitely content. Best. Night. Ever.
And now, some photo love courtesy of Miss V. He's a bit of a looker.

I've got a crush on you

I've got a crush on a lifeguard at my local pool. I swim three or four mornings a week, and whenever I catch site of him I push extra hard in an effort to impress him. This morning he held the door open for me. I squeaked out a thankyou and fell that little bit more in love with him.
Then I came home and fell in love all over again, but this time for the Banana bread I baked last night:

I found the recipe on Butter Sugar Flour the other day while drooling over her baking exploits. Luckily my family is a huge fan of bananas, and often buys far too many to eat all at once. Enter "the prefect opportunity to bake banana bread". I changed the flour in this to wholemeal for a little extra healthiness and replaced half the chocolate with walnuts because my mum demands nuts in her banana bread, but I reckon it would be just as tasty, if a little naughtier, with just the chocolate.

Butter Sugar Flour's (BSF) Chocolate Banana Bread 
250g Plain Flour
2.5tsp baking powder
big pinch of salt
125g dark or milk chocolate, chopped
1tsp vanilla extract
1cup caster sugar
2 large eggs
4 large, very ripe bananas, mashed (BSF reccomends not using any more than this or it becomes to stodgy. I tend to agree, it is definitely a bread, not a cake, so it's quite dense)
1. Preheat oven to 200C, and grease and line a bar tin.
2. Sift together flower, baking powder, and salt. Stir through choclate.
Mix together eggs, sugar, vanilla, bananas then combine with dry ingredients, being carful not to overmix.
3. Pour into pan and bake for 40mins, until golden brown and skewer inserted comes out clean. Cool on wire rack.

Or, if you're impatient like me, cut a slice and eat in straight away "just to check it's cooked properly".

What I like about you

As you've probably noticed from my new blog layout, I'm quite a fan of the "too much is never enough" style of decorating. This is in constant conflict with my need for all things to be practical and useful. The downfall comes when I see cute figurines and crocheted amigarumi characters and think "being incredibly cute and cuddly is a practical use, yes?" Ah...not really. But sometimes you just have to give yourself over to the fun and fabulous and forget about the fact that it's only going to take up space, or it's going to be impossible to wash/iron/breathe in.
My latest impractical crush is tulle. Layers and layers of it. I've always been a fan of frou-frou frocks and sweet ballerina skirts, and embelishments always look better when they POP! And what pops more than endless layers of tulle swinging from your hips.

1.  Deep Teal Dupioni Raw Silk Wrap from Bonzie. It's not tulle, but I had to show you how cute it is.
2. Made to order bridal skirt also from Bonzie's Etsy shop. (She's amazing, check her out.)  
3. "Blushing in Pink" gown by Ouma. I'm completely in love with this too.  
4. "Formal Affair" ballet style adult tutu by Princessdoodlebeans, who makes these as well.

I'm also a little too in love with blue, in all shades and patterns. When I was seven I convinced my father to paint my room in what Behr paints are currently calling fountain spout (I'd love to know who gets to choose the names). When asked why I chose that colour I shook my head sadly: so that I could be surrounded by the sea all the time, of course! I got sick of that colour after a few months but still love being surrounded by anything that reminds me of the sea. It's my happy place and blue is my happy colour, especially when it comes in the form of cute stuff.

1. "Water and Fire" feather earings by Hayashibeads. She crochets as well, look!
2. Navy vegan wrap boots from Toms. I've been wanting a pair of Tom's for ages, not only are they super funky, they were founded for a cause greater than themselves.
3. Wedding cake love bird toppers and place card set by Little Vale, who also makes stuff like this.

What secret obsessions are you harbouring at the moment?

Hypocritocrisy

I'm 26 in a bit over a week, and I've been single for nine years (GASP!). Yes, I realise this is a long ...very long...exceedingly long time (it's like a prison sentence). I'm not saying I haven't had...moments, they just haven't eventuated into anything more. And yes, this lack of lovin' has been, in large part, my own fault. See, the first guy I dated was (for the most part) a bastard - but he was also pretty damn amazing sometimes. Being my first boyfriend, he also won the ability to set the standard for every single guy that would come after him, and he set it mighty high.
And therein lies the problem.
You see, now I have this list of attributes a guy must tick off before he is considered worthy of more of my attention. I'm not saying the whole list has to be checked within the first ten minutes, there's just certain goals to be achieved before moving to the next level. (And I've just compared my lovelife to a video game...) Before I go on, I should probably state that not all things on this list are conscious decisions. In fact, a number are attributes I honestly thought I disliked, until someone pointed out the very opposite to me ( Apparantly I'm into big noses. What's that about?).
I'm rambling.
The thing is, I've realised recently that I need to stop using this list - consciously or not - when considering a guy because, clearly, it's not getting me anywhere. Problem: giving up the list means I'm settling, and I don't want to settle dammit! I'm sure there's a 6'1, bronzed, brown-haired/eyed, buffed, surfer boy out there who can sing, dance, play the guitar, and deal with my mood swings, all while being incredibly understanding, funny, intelligent, kind, sensitive, and honest. And I'm sure he's totally happy to settle for a short, chubby, redhead, with no current job, a dodgy knee, and an uncertain temperement, right?
HA!
I also realised a while ago that maybe beggers really can't be choosers, and if I don't lower my standards just a few inches I may very well be the crazy cat lady I keep joking about becoming. I think I've got a rather bad case of hypocritocrisy.


And yes, I do know that hypocritocrisy isn't a real word. But then this post is all about my own little world isn't it?