Exquisite

Hello Possums. The year has officially begun for me. I am back in Melbourne. After six weeks at our beach house everything around here seems like a novelty. I’ve been racing around today with Kathleen and Rosie picking up school books, stationary, purchasing yearly travel passes and even opening up transaction accounts for both of the girls at Westpac – their first proper accounts with plastic cards and everything! At Westpac in a private office reserved especially for consultations like The Opening of Accounts, the gentle and well groomed women smiled when the girls tipped mounds of gold coins out of their purses onto her desk with which to begin their banking relationship.  Later, we walked past our local Laurant bakery. I couldn’t resist, “oh I love this bakery”, I said to the girls, “Lets have lunch there!”. “Oh mum I’m not really hungry. We had left over dim sims before we came out”. They were keen to pick up their books and didn’t really want to stop. “Well how about an iced chocolate then?”. “Okay”. We went in. The girls found a little table by the window and sat down.  I went up to the well lit counter and was immediately tempted by their display of french pastries. I had intended to order a sandwich or quiche. However, there was a pastry shaped as a pear with sliced pear glazed into it that I couldn’t resist. “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat? There are some beautiful looking croissants here”. I knew the girls loved croissants. If they had one, I reasoned, I wouldn’t have felt as guilty about eating the pastry. The pastries were displayed with little white flags upon which their names were written in black lettering. The label of the pear-shaped one that had caught my eye was in French. I am not too confident with my French pronunciation. (As you know, “Bonjour, parlez vous Anglaise” was my favorite phrase whilst in Paris last July). To avoid having to call the pastry by its French name, after smiling and greeting the young woman behind the counter, I pointed to the pastry and phrased my request as  ” two iced chocolates please, a caffe latte and one of those exquisite French pastries shaped like a pear”. Without batting an eyelid the girl behind the counter replied, “Oh a Pear Puff”.  I nearly laughed. Its not exactly exquisite-sounding in English is it Possums?

Five links

Hello Possums. This morning I’ve decided to put my mind to a little meme sent to me by the riskee and bubbly miss lionheart . The rules are as follows:

Post five links to five of your previously written posts.The posts have to relate to these five key words: family; friend; yourself; your love; anything you like.Tag five other bloggers to do this meme.Try to tag at least two new acquaintances so that you get to know them each a little bit better. Okay here I go!

1. Family: Heather’s Brass is a story about the family I grew up in. Its fragmented now days, but in this story we come together for a common purpose. Other posts about my family are The Cosmic Rocket (about my sister) and Who’s that Man (about my brother).

2. Friend: He arrived for lunch wearing this Where would I be without his friendship throughout the years? It is really important to have people who know you and believe in you. He is an anchor for me.

3. Yourself: I’ll keep it thanks is about me in my body.

4. Your love: The Rose is about my love. This is not about infatuation. This love is a bit bruised, but its still there. Its a long term proposition.

5. Any thing you like: I learn a lot from my children. Lessons in Morality 1.

I now tag: pip, mennogirl, the person who wrote about political connotations in childhood fiction (I will add a link when I find her again – here we go, Catie), Charlotte and AnnaMR.

No White Flag

“I’ve still got sand in my shoes, and I can’t shake the thought of you. I should get on and forget you. But why would I want to? I know we said goodbye, anything else would have been confused. But I want to see you again”. [Sand In My Shoes, Dido]. The job of moving on is a hard thing to do.  The hardest break-up I experienced was with a tall, blonde, athletic Ukranian. We dated for two years. It was during a difficult period of my life. My mother died. He was the last of my lovers to have known my mother. Its possible that my need for security at that time in my life made the split harder to take. However difficult a split is for me I have reflected recently that in general my psychological tactic has been to latch onto the failings of the other. In the case of my tall Ukranian, after we split faults were easy to find. For example, he used to set ridiculous ultimatums. I was playful and could not take them seriously. I tended to push boundaries and flout his ultimatums. To punish me for my behaviour he would withdraw. Once when we were swimming down here at the very beach I still spend all of my summer holidays at, he gingerly entered the water. “Don’t splash me or I will never trust you again”, he warned. Of course, in my book, the only thing to do in this situation is to splash and if possible, trip. He lacked humour. As far as he was concerned I had breached his trust entirely. “I think you are too immature for a sexual relationship”, he pronounced gravely afterwards. Yes! That’s right Possums, he threatened to withdraw from sex because of this. After we split I vowed to never again have an intimate relationship with a person who wagered sex in arguments. Its hard to believe upon writing this story that I ever regretted splitting up with him, but I did for a long time. Focussing on this and his many other failings helped me to recover. There were quite a few actually. He was a creature of habit, cooked the same four meals on a rotational basis and if I joined him in the kitchen had to put up with strict instructions and routine, routine.  We clashed here. My cooking is organic and experimental. He had pannic attacks occasionally to the point where he would purposely lose tournaments in his sport of choice (fencing) to not have to appear in front of the assembly for the trophy. His insecurity manifested iself in our relationship in many ways, right down to long listening sessions on my part. And he was obsessed with his mother. (But he was beautiful. I adored the entire length of  his body during our relationship). I saw him again out of the blue four years ago at the Melbourne Cup. I had since had four children. He was still single, and incredibly nervous at meeting me. I have no desire to keep in touch with him or to ever see him again, but I have been thinking about the process of splitting lately and I wondered why I had been holding on to those bad times. I have decided to let them go because I don’t need them anymore. There were plenty of good times. He taught me how to cook traditional Ukranian food, and decorate eggs for Easter. We went on fishing and beach holidays together up the east coast. We were physically and emotionally intimate for two years. I met the hub less than a year after our split. I destroyed all of our photos after I was married, but my memory is clear. Now, twenty years later I am able to look back upon those memories through a different lens. It has therefore occured to me to ask the question, is it possible to break up with someone without going through a stage of remembering only the bad? Remembering the bad can justify the split and give you a sense of control. Remembering the good brings back the pain of grief for what might have been. Remembering the good happens within a state of melancholy as the process of grief works its way through your psyche. But why is melancholy such an unbearable, intollerable thing? Melancholy is associated with every phase of becoming who we aspire to be. And we are forever and always constantly becoming. This I have been reading about in the philosophy of Judith Butler. Why did it take me so long to see the light? I can walk with sand in my shoes.

Google eyes and pieces of fluff

Hello Possums. I would like to share a little craft solution with you. THE PROBLEM: Checker Board, no checkers! You know how it is. The checkers disappear over the years. Who know where? (Into a black hole with all of the odd socks most likely). THE SOLUTION: Some gum nuts from the garden:(Twenty-four to be precise). A visit to the local craft shop for fluff in two colours, a packet of 4mm googly eyes and a hot glue gun. THE RESULT: Gum nut checkers!  

And some holiday fun for a cooler windy day.  

I know a place

I  know a place where you can feed Australian animals by hand. It is the local Wildlife Park down here in the seaside town where we spend our summer holidays. I have photos of my children feeding the animals every year since Kathleen (who is now fifteen) was three, and the others were just babies in the baby backpack. This year I took only Sally, Emma and one of Emma’s friends from school. Rosie and Kathleen, for the first time, did not come with us. Instead, they opted to walk along the beach to town with a group of friends (four boys of their age) from our sailing club. Upon entry to the Wildlife Park, the young kids and I paid for admission where we were given little bags of feed. This is the routine at this place (admission costs include feed bags). It is possible to purchase extra feed bags for fifty cents each. This I always do – one extra bag per kid. Every time I take kids to the Wildlife park here (or to the Melbourne Zoo for that matter where we are Friends of the Zoo) there is always one or two highlights. Animals are unpredictable. Its impossible to know beforehand which ones will surprise you on each visit.  After picking up our bag of feed, we wandered in the same direction we always wander. A flock of wild Cape Barren Geese blocked our path to the koalas. These geese stand tall and smokey grey with a hint of pink. The girls opened their feed bags and fed the geese.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the koalas had a baby, but as usual they were sleeping. The wallabies, however, who are allowed to roam free around the park seemed hungrier than usual. The kids spent a long time feeding and patting these little creatures. Over the years we have been coming to the park, the wallabies have become more and more friendly. Even the babies this year were taking feed from the childrens’ hands.

 

Usually I don’t bother feeding the animals, content to sit in the sun, watch the kids and take the occasional photo. But one big wallaby came up to me and put his paws on my hands. I opened my bag of feed (reluctantly – I generally just save my bag for the first kid who runs out) and gave him some. I enjoyed it. Emma took a photo of me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two of the wombats were out walking around. These little guys are really cute. They are nuggety, I love the way their back toes point forwards and turn inwards and they remind me of all the times I have come across them in the wild (fond memories of skiing and bush walking). The kids really wanted to see the Tassie Devil for some reason. I think they are foul looking little viscious things, but they all said “oh isn’t he cute”. This year we didn’t stop to watch the sea eagles or the wedged-tail eagles, who are kept in a big enough enclusure for them to take flight. Last year they did just that. These powerful birds have wing spans of two meters and are magnificent to watch. The fruit bats this year were all pretty much asleep, hanging upside down near the heaters on the roof. Last year I caught them doing it. The kids didn’t see it (they were over at the dingoes) but I was fascinated watching these little furry creatures awkwardly positioning themselves to do it upside down. My favorite area in the park is the section where emus and grey kangaroos live, but not because of the emus. They can be creepy. They can come up quietly behind you and before you know it you turn around to find yourself suddenly face to face with a pecky beak and big poppy-out eyes. Emma is particularly scared of the emus because of a time when she was two, strapped into a pusher at Tower Hill and a couple of emus stole biscuits out of her hands. No, its not the emus eventhough this time there were babies, its because of the grey kangaroos. These creatures are timid, but their fur is silky soft and they have gentle eyes. They are the most beautiful of the kangaroos in my opinion. To my surprise the greys were not timid at all this time. They actually approached the children, allowed them to feed them by hand and stroke their fir. We spent a long time walking around the large open space and bushland where they live. I watched the children. Sally in particular, being the youngest and because she seems to have an affinity with a lot of different animals, enjoyed it the most. She patted and fed them and talked to them as though they understood her. “Are you itchy?” she would ask them if they happened to scratch. Interpreting a pause in their scratching as, “Yes I am and if you wouldn’t mind the spot is right there on my back, oh yes that’s it”, she scratched their backs and entered into conversation with them. I watched as these large kangaroos mellowed under her touch and realised yet again how special this place is.  

Family Holiday to Europe

What do you do during your holidays when the weather has turned cooler? Remenisc about your recent holiday to Europe of course! Months ago I received a request from Kate to share here my infamous slide show – infamous because I inflicted it upon anyone who would spare me the time for weeks after we returned. My laptop came with me to friends places, cafes, restaurants and to workplaces for that singular purpose. I have now uploaded the show to Flickr and you may view it via the link in the side bar to your right. What do you think?

Messages in the sky

I took my girls (that’s four), my friend Tony and his daughter (that’s a total of seven bods) out for a sail on Bucket, our catamaran. Bucket is affectionately called Baby Hoby at our sailing club because she is the smallest hoby cat in the club. I often take large groups of kids and friends out on Bucket. The serious sailors always laugh. “You have quite a handicap there”, they have been known to jibe as they pass me weighted down with passagers in a race. They can’t understand my point of view of sailing in a race without a competative bent (that is, just for fun). The conditions on this particular day were not as windy as the day before and there was less of a swell, so I took my boat load out for a long sail into the bay far from the club. We were enjoying the gentle sailing and the children were singing Disney tunes in harmony when the shark-spotting plane flew overhead. This little plane is very distinctive. It is tiny and bright yellow with a little spoiler-thingy at its tail. It flies over the bay near us at around four or five in the afternoon every day. It usually flies straight over. However, last year it circled in the air a mere fifty meters out from the club. Police swarmed the beach and instructed swimmers to get out of the water. A seven meter white pointer had been spotted. Up in the clubrooms there was a lot of excitement. A race had just finished and the race officials up in the control room, with a first storey view across the bay, were certain they saw the large dark shape. Our children, who were playing near the boat ramp were determined that they saw its fin surface near a power boat too close for comfort. It was very exciting. I texted all my friends and acquaintances the news. My brother’s reply was the funniest: fish and chips for everyone! From Bucket we watched the little yellow plane. “That’s the shark-spotting plane”, I said for the benefit of our guests. “Last year it circled about there because a seven meter shark was spotted”. Just as I said this the little plane’s engine changed pitch and it did a turn. Oh shit! I thought to myself. “Ready about”, I said clamly to my crew. I quickly turned bucket around to head back for shore. I was on a beautiful straight tack to the club. However, right at that point in the drama the wind dropped! We were still over a hundred metres out. For once I was wishing I didn’t have the extra weight on the boat. With just one or two people she can fly. Poor Bucket laboured with her boughs deep in the water. “So a seven meter shark. That would be almost three times the length of this boat”, Tony pointed out. “Ah yeah”, I said. This I already knew. The wind picked up. As I sheeted in the sail and Bucket started moving with some speed I noticed the little plane flew off in the other direction. My eldest daughter commented on this fact. She and I had both been secretly antipating the plane’s movements in a state of unspoken but shared anxiety. Had it completed its circle and not just done a U-turn, our panick would have been acute.  As it was it was just mild heebie-jeebies. But I made a bee-line for the shore anyway. That was enough sailing excitement for me for one day. Today when I was jogging along the beach I heard a plane in the distance. I looked up expecting the shark-spotter, eventhough it was only midday. Out in the bay I saw Bucket’s colourful sail. The hub was out there with Emma and one of her friends. The tide was out and thousands of funny little soldier crabs were socializing on the sand. I passed the young man I noticed last night with a magnificent tatoo on his back and a torso to die for, but he was too far out with the low tide to catch a repeat of yesterday’s smile.  A little dog ran with me for awhile until his owner called him back. The sound of the plane got louder and I could see it was not the little yellow plane at all, but a biplane towing a large message on a banner. I watched it approaching waiting to read the message. It was written in large red letters on a clear background: “OLD FART BRIAN JONES TURNS 60 TODAY”, it said. My first impulse after laughing was to share it with my kids, “Hey guys you have to come and see this”. But I knew it would be gone before I got back to the house. This time it was just for me.

A little on desire and feminism

OK I’m reading two books at the moment. ‘Gender Trouble’ by Judith Butler and fiction: ‘Black Swan Green’ by David Mitchell. The thoughts expressed here, however, have nothing to do with the fictional book, as much as I am enjoying reading it. I have a post brewing on gender and female sexuality. I think I might ask Lia to post it over at the Red Tent. I haven’t quite managed to get my head around my thoughts yet, but they have been prompted by what I have been reading in Gender Trouble, beginning with Butler’s argument about why the project of feminism should not include the delineation of the term ‘woman’ and moving on to her critique of certain structuralist accounts of gender, sexuality and desire. The discourses she critiques pervade our society. I have become aware of them through living; I am an educator, not a philosopher. Wittig takes the masculine as the only sex, and feminine as the absence of sex. De Bouvier takes the feminine as the only sex, masculine being taken as the unmarked norm. Butler’s critique of these and the theories of Lacan and Levi Strauss are thorough and necessary. Theory often seems disconnected from the lives we live, but not only did the theories of Wittig and de Bouvier articulate discourses that accounted for many a women’s lived reality, the concepts from theory filter into everyday lives and help shape the reality of experience with their explanatory power. A classic example of this is the concept of the ego from Freud. Invented for its explanatory power, it is often used in everyday speech as though it is a reality of our psychic lives. Butler brings our attention to the unthinkable and uninhabitable positions brought about by these contemporary theories on gender and sex. One consequence and contingency to their survival is the absence of women’s desire. The scary thing is that not only must women’s desire be absent in order for the theories to hold (particularly Lacan’s theory on bonds between men as the fabric of society), it may be absent from our psychic lives and the discourses we live and think within. Think about it. How often is women’s desire unnameable? unknown? How many of you had to break free from patriarchal, phallocentric, or heternormative rules in order to name and live your own desires freely?  For example, I contributed to a conversation about desire and a man’s need for pornography last year. Some of you might have read Mr Z’s post about his friend who’s internet was down and had been suffering through lack of access. The general male comments in relation to this were sympathetic. I expressed concern for the effect using porn could have on relationships and was met with the (light hearted) justification that men needed variety and the not-so-lighthearted suggestion that I lighten up. I wonder why factoids like this on male sexuality circulate as normal, yet women’s desire remains unknown and unnameable. Why can’t it be conceivable as just as likely that women need variety too? … my latest idea is to try to couch these thoughts within my own experiences. (To be continued on Red Tent).

In the kitchen

I have been challenged to cook entrees for fifty people at tonight’s progressive dinner at the yacht club. I went into the club at one o’clock today in order to prepare the ingredients for my noodle salad served with chili seared chicken breast before hand. After four and a half hours I am happy to report that all is going to plan. On the way to the kitchen I stopped at the local supermarket where I was relieved to find fresh bean shoots and some fresh chilies, which weren’t there the other day. In the kitchen I found two sturdy pans to cook the chicken in,

 

a massive pot in which to cook the noodles

 

  

and posed for a cheesy self-timer shot (to show off my new hair colour, which is not really necessary to this story – the lighter tips are just noticeable). 

  

My daughters helped me prepare the salad ingredients. Here they are making carrot ribbons (difficult to catch them being serious in photographs). 

Our view across the dining room and out over the balcony was magnificent. Conditions for sailing were great. Unfortunately this was not relevant for us today. We were busy in the kitchen.

We have come home for a rest and a swim in the sea. All I need to do before heading back to the club is to make up a little more dressing.  In an hour or so we will go back to assemble the prepared ingredients for serving.  I’ll be back in the kitchen and the girls will act as waitresses. They are choosing matching outfits to wear as I write. Oh and I almost forgot. I need to pick an outfit. Women have to wear a splash of red tonight. (I don’t know why).

The trial run

 

Well Possums, I have decided to make the noodle salad with chicken instead of kangaroo as entree for the yacht club progressive dinner tomorrow night. I found out that the main for the progressive dinner was barbecued lamb and decided kangaroo followed by lamb was too heavy. For my trial run (above), I cooked the chicken breast in a hot pan with olive oil, soy sauce and sliced chili, sliced it diagonally and placed it on top of the noodle salad. Its hard to see from the photo, but I have garnished it with fried shallots and crushed peanuts. Hot mint is a strong flavour within the salad.

I was pleased to find a pot of the hot mint plant at a local market and locally grown snow peas. The ingredient I will have the most trouble finding down here before tomorrow is bean shoots (I bought the last pack at the supermarket for this trial run yesterday - fingers crossed they get some more in!).

The noodle salad is a favorite recipe of mine. It is flexible because you can add as few or as many ingredients as you have at hand. I was given the recipe for the dressing many years ago by a beautiful friend who is a chef. Even though I have made this salad many times, I have never had to cook it for a crowd of sixty before. Therefore the trial run was necessary to calculate quantities of ingredients. Using the proportion above I worked out that I will need fifteen chicken breasts and five packets of each type of noodle (rice and egg).

I have decided to serve it cold. This way I don’t need to cook the chicken immediately before and keep it hot in the oven. I will be able to go to the yacht club during the day tomorrow and prepare everything in advance. I’m looking forward to it. The yacht club has an excellent industrial kitchen. Last time I took a CD player in but this time my ipod will come with me to provide the compulsory music to cook by.

I have lined up my four girls to help me as waitresses. After the entree is done, my job will be over. Someone else will look after the following courses and I will be able to relax and socialize.