I Bottle, therefore I am.

      This is just a little tribute to my beautiful Nana, Amy Cowan, who lived  through the depression and raised 3 of her 5 children during WWII, and died a long time ago now- in 1988. But recently, I feel as though she is very close. You see, she was an orchardist's wife and as such was a great preserver, bottler and baker. It came with the territory. Nana would have pastry rolled out and an apple pie in the oven before you could even find your car-keys and get down to the shops to buy Sara Lee. Her shelves were lined with huge bottles of pears, peaches, apples, and relishes, jams, sauces and such. All made by her. Visits to her would often involve taking lamb sandwiches (adorned with mint sauce, made by her of course), to Grandpa out in the orchard, who would eat them sitting on a packing case, and swig it down with billy tea- then we would go blackberry picking. We were always foraging, peeling, baking, or watching Nana do it.

      Thanks to this heritage that Nana instilled me at such a young age, I happen to be a bottler and preserver type too. And a forager. I didn't realise how much it was a big part of me, until I started growing herbs and tomatoes again this summer, and the constant rain awoke our sad fruit trees and they started producing edible fruit again.
I hate waste. I love to savour, and enhance. And so, I've got bottling fever. Now I have the internet, I'm scouring for great recipes. But I have Maggie Beer's Harvest and the trusty old Edmond's Cook Book to help me along too. And I'm a littl bit inventive.
 So far this summer, I have made chilli jam from my own Jalepenos, Tarragon Vinegar, and pickled Beetroot Relish. We have just finished a pot of homemade rhubarb/raspberry compote as well.
 The beauty of these condiments, is that I have, or my mother-in-law Kath (another Great Depression child) has, grown all the fruit and vegetables ourselves, without chemicals.

      I didn't realise how addicted I was to preserving until I recently looked way up into the cupboards to find ancient plum jam, olives and peach nectar, all 10 or more years old. Possibly inedible- but what a testament to my dedication to the art of preserving! My tomato sauce never goes uneaten, but Kath's pickles sadly just don't have the right flavour, and often sit there for a couple of years before I give up and throw them out. I didn't do much in the way of preserving through the main years of this 10 year drought, but now that veges and fruit are again in surplus watch out!

      My aim this year is to hit on that perfect piquancy in pickles- Nana had it nailed. Her tomato sauce too, was just right- a spicy kick of I don't know what at the end- cayenne maybe? Meanwhile, it's off to source jars... I know where I can get my zucchinis and rhubarb in abundance at least- at Kaths!

Picnic food Paranoia

The scene-
A picnic at a well known outer Melbourne suburban picnic spot- an annual gathering of employees of a private health provider. Theres at least thirty of us. Several children, a few teenagers, a few young couples, singles, and a majority of middle aged couples. We have amongst us, a majority of Asian origin people, from the Chinese mainland and from Hong Kong and Thailand; we have English, Canadian, Croatian, French, Polish, Indian and of course Irish. Notably absent are our Egyptian and Russian friends, and more's the pity.
We're all looking forward to each other's food, tasting exotic cuisines.
But where does that leave me- An Australian English descendant with about a 32nd part of Maori in me?
 Do I even have a cuisine? One of my favourite styles of food is Asian- so I'm not going to do that- and just as well, Flora from Thailand brings Tom Kha Gai, piping hot in a huge pot, a delicious herb salad with Thai Dressing, and a plate of beef carpaccio adorned with olives, feta and capers. Wei makes skewers of beef, chicken, chicken wings in delicious salty and spicy flavourings. Marie-Lau makes a buttery rich quiche, served in a traditional earthenware fluted tin, and a banana cake, flecked with chunks of chocolate. It looks high and proud like a brioche, tastes amazing and I am instantly jealous of this young woman's heritage and baking prowess. Kate brings an deliciously simple salad of coarsely grated beetroot, onion, carrot and coriander.
I quickly wizzed up a frittata, early in the morning- a variation on the tortilla/zucchini pie- mandolinned potato and zucchini, sweated off in olive oil with onion, then added to whisked up eggs and cream, some torn smoked salmon and lots of parsley and chives. I buy dinner rolls, grab chicken chipolattas and my home made chilly jam, and off we go- but my cooking confidence is low, considering the field of experts I know I am sharing with. And yet what I have made is automatic- it's from this huge repertoire I'm gathering- and I'm not even a very adventurous cook, compared to the likes I see on  'reality' TV cooking shows.
But I do like food; and I love it especially when it is of good quality, well thought out, quickly thrown together, rustic, wholesome, tasty, full of texture. Low fat, high fat, vegetarian, meaty, preserved, fresh- I don't really care, as long as it's been made with the best ingredients money can buy, or hands can nurture in a garden. I don't have a 'cuisine' as such, and I guess, like my own nationality, somewhat flecked with Polynesian, enriched with having lived in urban New Zealand , in 'alternate' rural NSW, country Victoria and in cosmopolitan Melbourne; I am in a broad church, culturally speaking. I love it and won't fight the outcome- a confused but happy mish-mash of things I've found and loved along the way.
 I can't lay hold of a specific food tradition I want to identify with as an Australian or a Kiwi- I really don't want to be tarred with any brush. A bit like my tastes in music and Literature, I am an eclectic appreciator of all.
Take me to a hangi full of pork and fish and I am in raptures, as I am in the company of Chinese people serving up traditional home-made delights. I can cook a mean scone, I can ice a cup-cake, and I can do a roast lamb to a turn- but I will spike it with Mediterranean delights, I will "French-ify" a chicken, and I will never, ever, ever, EVER serve a piece of steak or a chop with plain cooked vegetables.
I doubt very much that I am a rarity- I think I am very much an average cook, in an average experience, if there is such a thing. And I suspect my friends at this picnic don't think anything very different to me- I think enjoying each other's food and cultural uniqueness is as enjoyable for them as it is for me.
Sunday's picnic allayed my fears of incompetency, the relaxed and carefree sharing of each other's tastes was only a vehicle to a further end- that of friendship and common understanding after all.

Breakdown Town

   Recently I spent weeks on the north coast of NSW- where my brother and I had a few good days together, something we hadn't done in many years. I have lived in Geelong for twenty one years now, and he has lived in and around Byron Bay all this time. We drifted into our own lives so much we found it hard to connect again, but now in our mid-40's find ourselves enjoying just hanging together, and most importantly we get each other.
   This little blues flavoured number was inspired by the number of broken down vehicles on the roadside as we drove from Brunswick Heads to Mullumbimby, which caused us to throw a few phrases together. We had fun.(It actually doesn't have a tune, but it really could go with any bluesy, sad progression of chords. Harmonica would be good. Even Banjo could work).
   
Driving down the highway, there's a break-down and another
Stranded people standing
helpless, by their broke-down cars....
Driving into
Breakdown city, and there's a man without a woman
There's a house without a roof and view through to the stars

(Chorus)
Breakdown Town, Breakdown Town
I'm heading back to familiar ground
Breakdown town

Coming back to Breakdown there's my kids without a dad
Sister's man has lost his marbles
and the school got burnt away
The vines and weeds are growing, the dog's without a bone
The town has got no mayor, and the hens forgot to lay

(Chorus)
Breakdown town, Breakdown town
I'm on familiar ground,
here in Breakdown Town.

(Bridge)
Where there's a girl without a boy, and a child without a toy
The heart has got no beat, the footpath has no street
Where the head has no thought, the school no lessons taught
the wall has no mortar, the father's without a daughter,
the wire's lost its spring, the Queen has misplaced her King
my mum's without her phone, my ice-cream has no cone
the grass has got no edge, the window has no ledge
I'm eating without a dish, and I've only got one wish
….
(Chorus)
to turn my back on Breakdown Town, Breakdown Town
that old familiar ground
Breakdown Town

In Your House

I began this blog, believing my life would just flow off my 'pen' as it were, such is the culturally rich series of events it is. To be honest, it really is, that is, rich, and I do write a lot, and I am happy in this. I guess the living of it doesn't just naturally flow out into readable stuff, blog-gable stuff. Certainly not with any regularity.
I would journal as a kid, and it was so cathartic, so helpful. Now I chat about this, that, solve the problems of my life and my world on facebook, with my closer friends. I tweet, some days endlessly. Saying everything but nothing to no-one in particular. Just a little steam vent, a "Blaaaaahhhhhh" to the world.
So where is my inner life? The intelligent observations and intense analyses of a woman obsessed with everything that makes life interesting- people, food, culture, history, arts, love, war, death and life?
They are there, in the stratosphere, disjointed and organically shifting shape, like a cloud.
 Not here, so much, in this blog.
 But I will try to rectify that.
There, a belated New Year's resolution, which I am loath to ever do- but I think, this time I must.
 So watch this space.