A fortunate event?

Yesterday marked one year since I tore the Anterior Cruciate Ligament (ACL) in my right knee for the second time. A year ago today I was grimacing through the pain as I underwent scans, x-rays, poking and prodding. Last year on this day I spent most of the afternoon in tears, trying to convince myself it wasn't so bad, but knowing in the pit of my stomach that one wrong step would cause months of frustration and anguish.
I wasn't too far wrong. The damage had been done at work - a shoe sales job I'd had for a total of two weeks - but my claim for compensation was rejected on the grounds that the task I was doing - walking from the selling floor to the stock room - wasn't closely enough related to work. I was up for close to $8000 in medical bills and was now jobless.
After seeing a specialist I was immeidately booked in for surgery - I'd not only torn the ACL but severely damaged the cartilage around it. The whole area was already weak from a previous tear to the same ligament twelve years prior, meaning that would also have to be cleaned up and my recovery would likely be slower than average.
Twelve months later and my knee, while stronger than it's been in years, still aches on cold nights, or twinges if I move it at a funny angle. When it does, I remember how much heartache I've been through because of it, and the stress and frustration at having such a small thing cause so much havoc to my life financially, socially, physically, and emotionally. But I've also been thinking lately that maybe, even with all the tears it caused, this whole thing wasn't such a catastrophe after all.
I spent the morning setting up for a gala dinner for 1000 people. A lot of it was hard, hot work - moving tables, setting out chairs, folding napkins, and carting crates of cuttlery, crockery and glasses to and fro. But in the midst of all this, in fact while lugging 10kg of silverware from one end of the room to the other, I realised I was living my dream.
Ok, so not my complete dream. I'd much prefer to not be covered in sweat and dust, and maybe also to be in charge of the event rather than just part of the staff of extras, but the essence of the dream is there. I was part of the process. My hand was involved in creating this thing, this event that, for those attending tomorrow night, will hopefully be something more than just a dinner.
There's this overwhelming craziness that comes from seeing a decrepit cattle pavillion transformed from an empty hall into a 5-star ballroom, and knowing that you were responsible (even in a small way) for that. As odd as it sounds, it's almost like the birth of a temporary artwork, the creation of something for others to share. And pulling something off successfully gives me this incredible rush of ecstasy that I can ride for days!
Sure, there's bits that aren't so fun - the mountains of paperwork, insurances and licenses for a start - but every job has its downfalls, and the good stuff far outweighs the bad stuff.
The good stuff: playing with themes and ideas, creating the most outrageous things you can come up with, transporting people from the normal to the amazing, hearing someone talk about something you helped create months (or even years) later, improvising, imagining and innovating.
This time last year I'd been two weeks in a job I already hated. I was a recent uni graduate with no savings, no decent job prospects and far too much debt. I felt defeated, frustrated and lost. Now? I still have no savings, another year of study to get through and far too much debt. And I've still got a dodgy knee and a lot of things that frustate me. But I've also got a direction, and I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't be going in the same one had I not torn my ACL, and been forced to up-end my whole life and reconsider where I was heading. I don't want to give my knee too much credit, but maybe someday I can say this little drama is responsible for helping me become the Aussie version of Colin Cowie, creator of stuff like this: 


A Wedding in Cabo San Lucas

  

Remembering why

Hands up if you're from somewhere less than amazing? I am. I grew up in several little towns in an area skirting the largish town of Toowoomba. I say town because, as much as it tries, Toowoomba is still very much not a city. This is one of the many things about it that I both love and hate. I love that it lacks the anxious pace Brisbane offers, but I absolutely hate that there's almost nothing to do in Toowoomba outside visiting gardens and going to the movies. The first of these activities, however is also a reason I absolutely love the place.
I often forget just how beautiful Toowoomba is, and it will take a drive through the quiter streets, or a picnic in one of the many parks for me to remember that there is actually plenty to do if you're willing to think outside the square. Aside from picnics, the streets around town are filled with gorgeous old houses and cool tree-lined pavements which are perfect for a summer afternoon photo sesion, and there's even a park with a croquet court (which I've been meaning to get to for oh, ten years).
Lucky the newly married Tina and Tim didn't forget about Toowoomba's beauty. Even luckier for me, their photographer, Darren of CK Mettrophotos, did such a fantastic wedding shoot that Green Wedding Shoes featured their wedding, then I stumbled across it and fell so in love I just had to share it with you.
These are my favourite shots, courtesy of Green Wedding Shoes:

  All the parks are so full of trees that you can sit almost anywhere and be guaranteed that sun-dappled patches of cool grass will surround you. And the council's obession with hedges and flower-dividers makes it all feel a bit Alice-in-Wonderland.
So pretty.

Powerlessness

It's been quite the gap in between ramblings hasn't it? There's not been any exceptional excuse for my truency, I've simply not really been in the mood and that tends to make for fairly bad, usually rather sooky writing. Last night I was in the mood, but last night had other plans for me.
Last night we lost power. There was a pop and then darkness. And then came the absurdity of finding a key for the power box, discovering we didn't really know all that much about powerboards, and trying to get in touch with our landlord through his rather unfriendly mother-in-law. There were calls to the power company to be told the call-out would be free, unless of course it was just a switch issue - then it would cost us $300 for their trouble. And there was eventual contact with the landlord who promised an appearance within a half-hour or so.
In between all these little adventures was the constant grumbling of our hungry bellies as we mourned what was to be dinner - potato soup, and herb & cheese bread. And with no end to the darkness in sight we sat down to cold mashed potato with steamed vegetables and avocado (with no "d"). Another call to the power company, two visits by the landlord, and an hour-long game of oven-on-oven-off with the on-call electricians, and we headed to bed with power restored and the promise of a new line of wiring to replace the decrepit and illegal hook-up we have currently.
The truck has been outside all morning, beeping and crunching and hopefully fixing our wires, which gives me some hope that tonight may involve a little less darkness. Meanwhile, here's something I've been meaning to post for a while:

These fantastic cards are courtesy of Crankbunny's Etsy store. She also does some amazing paper puppets, and a pair of magical Zizzors that give you magical crafting abilities. Seriously thinking of buying a pair.

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

The lurgy

My flu has finally cleared up and, for the most part, I'm feeling a lot better. Except for the cough. I joked to a friend that I sound like a walrus on heat. So in an effort to avoid becoming Seaworld's latest attraction, I headed back to the doctor. He did the mandatory chest-test, checked my glands, and took a throat swab. Today I have to go back and have a blood test, but he's pretty sure I have Whooping Cough. Whooping Cough - or pertussis - is characterised by uncontrollable coughing fits followed by a high-ptiched "whoop" as you struggle desperately to breathe again. The ever-wise Wikipedia informs me that these fits " can occur on their own or can be triggered by yawning, stretching, laughing, eating or yelling". Excellent. As it's highly contagious and can lead to all sorts of other complications (pneumonia, seizures, encephalopathy), if the bloodwork comes back positive everyone I live with has to be treated for it.
I remember having Croup (as my mother calls it) a few times as a kid. Waking up in the dark, struggling to draw in breath while my chest exploded. My whole body would be wracked by such violent convulsions as I coughed that after a few days I would cry in pain, only adding to the agony as I tried to breathe through the tears. I remember being shuffled into the bathroom, mum cranking the shower as hot as it would go, and sitting with me on the bath mat as I inhaled the steam, trying to heat and clear my airways. There was a time or two I would cough so badly mum and dad would bundle me off to the local hospital where I'd be shuffled into the humidcrib for the night. With sleep out of the question I would sit reading, the nurses bringing me lemonade and lollies, playing board games and cards with me, until dawn broke and the warmth of a new day warmed my lungs and allowed me a small window of respite.
Having been there with me as a child my mother was immediately sure what was wrong. Stubbornly I denied it, knowing full well the hacking pain in my chest and back each time I coughed could only really be one thing. Even with the medication Whooping Cough usually last six weeks. Six weeks of hacking cough and strangled breathing. And six weeks of chest, back, neck, ribs, all aching constantly from the exertion. Needless to say, today I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself. I'm also hoping I haven't infected anyone else. I have no idea where I picked it up, but Whooping Cough is something I wouldn't wish to share with anyone.  
Fun note: My cousin suggested I make the best of the next few weeks and contact the BahaMen. Turns out I do a damn fine 'Who Let the Dogs Out'. 

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!)

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.  
 

So Frenchy

Theme nights. I've always found them slightly tacky and just a bit on the ostentatious side. That was, of course, until last weekend. Inspired by a viewing of the incredible Julie &Julia and all the delectable recipes within, my Darling Friends Vodka and Wabi decided a French theme night was needed. And so we set about creating a night of all things French.There was French film - La Vie En Rose - French word use (limited to our very lacking French vocabulary), French music, and French style in the form of stripes and a black beret. 
And then there was the food. My God, the food! The lovely V provided the mandatory baguette and cheese (Brie and Camembert of course) which we ate with gusto, leaving naught but crumbs as evidence of its existence.
For dessert Wabi pulled out the. most. amazing. Orange-scented Creme Brulee I have ever eaten:

You should definitely check it out and perhaps make it for yourself sometime. Don't share it, you'll want it all for yourself. Promise.
And me? I turned to the master for the main. Of course if you're not French and you want to cook French food there is only one person to learn from, and that is Julia Child herself. And so I tracked down her famous Boeuf Bourguignon recipe, along with a side of her Choux de Bruxelles Etuves au Buerre (or Brussels Sprouts Braised in Butter for all us non-French speaking hethans). I swear to you, even if you hate Brussels Sprouts you will love Julia's - they're amazing. Seriously. And the boeuf? WOW! I'm not going to say it was easy. It wasn't. There's two separate dishes within this dish (the mushrooms and the onions) that must be cooked while the boeuf is doing it's thang, and it takes three hours to cook - not including prep time. But so worth it. The meat practically melted on our tongues, and the sauce was an absolute treat. With the sprouts and some steamed potatoes I'd willingly say it's now in my top ten meals of all time. 
You should make it. I know you'll love it. Look how delish it is:

If only you could smell it, you'd rush out and buy the ingredients today. Tres Magnifique!   

The flipside of Easter

Easter has always represented a bit of a mind-fuck (excuse the french) for me. See, easter is all about the birth of new life, specifically Christ dying and rising again. But it's also represented by the birth of spring - eggs, bunnies, spring flowers, etc. The thing is, on my little scrap of the earth, as I'm sure it is for most in the Southern Hemisphere, it's nowhere near Spring right now. And so I find myself - as I do at Christmas with the snow/blinding heat paroxism - finding easter's acoutrement of all-things-spring somewhat ironic. And then I find this little gem and have to take a photo, because apparantly even the mushrooms are getting into the swing of things:

It looks like an egg, no?
I snapped that yesterday, while wandering around my Uncle's farm in the mountains behind the area I spent much of my childhood. I also stumbled across this perfectly framed glimpse of the endless hills ambling along the horizon:

This year easter is a little less ironic for me, and not just because of the mushroom. With the rains we've had over the last few months, and the fires of last spring, these hills are greener than I've ever seen. They've found new life in the last moments of summer and, with that, brought new life to a once dead valley and all its flora, fauna, and peoples. The easter message - from death springs new life and hope - seems to resound around this place, even without spring on the doorstep.

Bake me away

When I was a kid, my brother and I would spend the best part of the weekend running amok outside. We lived in a small country town next to the macinery firm dad ran, and had unhindered access to all manner of tractor, plough, ride-on mower and farm thinga-ma-bob. On Sunday afternoons, after a full day of yabbieing, "driving" tractors, and (ahem) aquiring and selling golfers their own golf balls (we were wicked children), we'd scramble inside, grass-stained and sunburnt. And that's when the real fun would begin.
See, Sunday afternoon was baking afternoon, the time when my mother would roll up her sleeves and restock the cupboard with afternoon tea and lunchbox treats, and we got to help. Now, there's nothing too shocking in that, most kids have helped their mum bake cookies at one time or another. The reason I share this is because it was the start of a life-long love, a love that may just rival that I will have for any man. Ever.
When I was six...and ten...and even fifteen, cooking was a time I spent helping my mother with chores. But it was also a time we could spend learning each other, and teaching each other things. My mother is a smart woman. She understood that bakeing wasn't just about flour, sugar, and butter, it was about learning new skills, creating something yourself, and giving something to others that you can't find in any Oreo or Tim Tam.
The great thing about cooking is that, when it's done purely for the love of it, it is an experience well outside the chore we often make it. We cook because we must eat. But we can also cook to give those who eat our food, a little taste of ourselves. My days of climbing tractors and ripping off golfers may be over, and the timing may be less Sunday afternoon and more whenever the urge kicks in, but the excitement at watching a cake rise, or a mayonaise thicken is still the same. And the feeling of satisfaction I get when someone 'Mmmmm's at the taste of my brownies is pure joy.
I spent almost an hour today gasping and thumbing through the cookbooks in my local department store. It felt like a mere ten minutes. Among the treasures I would gladly have sold a limb for was a book by Monica Trapaga that sums up a large chunk of why I love cooking.

She's Leaving Home is a bunch of Monica's family's favourite recipes, stories, and cooking tips, originally created for her daughter when she left home. Luckily, she has also decided to share it with the rest of the world. The recipes that fill the book are accompanied by family annecdotes and some super sweet illustrations, and seem to swell with the love and fulfillment they surely have provided generations of her family. 

Outside of the book, Monica is a seasoned entertainer and a veteran of Australian children's television. For me, this adds to the charm of the book. As I skimmed through the stories and glanced at the pictures I couldn't help but remember sitting a-top a beanbag with a warm anzac, watching Dr Monica and Miss Polly put Jemima Dolly straight to bed.