This is a series of rants about things I find interesting, challenging and perhaps downright idiotic on television.
My Kitchen Rules: also known as MKR.
Well what can I say? It is for me undoubtedly one of the most entertaining things on the box, and also one of the most frustrating to follow, and follow I must. I love food, I love seeing ordinary people (who I unashamedly relate to ) having a go at cooking amazing food; I love the drama that unfolds between the different people. I love Manu Feildel and Pete Evans, and think they make a wonderfully balanced pair of judges/hosts. I also love the guest judges at the Kitchen Headquarters cook-offs: Karen Martini, George Grossi, Liz Egan and Colin Fassnidge; they add a classiness, and an edge to the whole scene, validating the contestant's efforts, making appreciative noises and constructive criticisms in a very encouraging manner. I love the concept of the show: pitching home cooks in teams against each other, with all of them developing and becoming very competent potential chefs along the way. Great food and produce being showcased throughout the show is another great incentive to watch for me, because I am passionate about this as well, (as are many viewers I would imagine ). MKR is a package that is hard to resist, if you're a food lover like me. Or even just enjoy a bit of melodrama in a kitchen, like some. It is a Foody Soapy on wheels.
So what is there not to like about MKR?
Hmmm, let me count the ways.
My first complaint about the series is the way the mobile kitchen team episodes work. We get week after week of these challenges occurring in various iconic locations, which I think are supposed to make us feel 'included' and entertained by the scenarios. However, they become pedestrian, after the third or fourth episode of office workers/children/market goers being foisted upon with varied-in-quality experiments of semi-amateur feasts, for which they obviously, must pay. We've seen these very same challenges on Ten's Master Chef and we're surely getting tired of the format by now, aren't we? The food itself became very predictable in these challenges, because it was either jumped-up cafe food, or dumbed-down restaurant quality food, with the same old same old recipes and techniques being played out again and again. Maybe an over arching sense of the instructive aims and goals in cooking techniques might have been a nice foreground to this format of the competition?
I can only speak for myself when I talk about the ways in which the different contestants affected me, and how I saw their journeys throughout the series. Then again, the way this whole thing has been packaged has left me with no choice but to think and feel a certain, prescribed way. As it turns out, all we MKR fans in our living rooms are getting the exact same feelings and messages in this way. Just ask your mates: who actually fell in love with Chloe and Kelly's antics, or didn't have a warm spot in their hearts for Uel and Chanel? The way this show is polished up and presented to us gives us very little room for engaging with it in any other way than the show's designers intended for us to. Here is an SMH live blog as the grand final episode went to air where just some of the viewers comments are shown, giving us quite a clear indication how people responded to the show.You can see there are many questions being asked by the punters.
I am not cynical nor suspicious; I am certain this is how it has been edited, packaged and delivered. How do I know this? Am I some kind of telepathic, omniscient being who can see into television world? Do I know people in the business, who leak me information? Actually no. I am just a punter at home, who likes to know how things run. So I watch and read between the lines. I can't help it.
I really would love to know: are they real-life BFFs, or is it just for this potentially money winning opportunity? Is this their own kitchen and their own gear? Are this team evenly matched or is it just one ambitious cook with a roped-in side-kick along for the ride? Did they actually make this beforehand, or in-front of the cameras? Who chose the dishes, and how much help did they get in deciding what to cook? Were there budget constraints? (Actually I'm pretty sure there mustn't have been! ) And the post-challenge pieces to camera- how do they get the contestants to narrate events with such accuracy of recollection? Does this happen directly or long after the events?
These are the questions that run through my underutilised brain as I sit slack-jawed three evenings a week, while I miss cutting edge dramas on ABC and SBS, leaving me to watch later them on the iPad, hopefully when I can find the time. Yes I am enjoying the food, the results, the tensions, but I am also bored by the constant repetitions of script by the contestants, who very obviously would not naturally be yelling out to their partner
'Babe, I am just putting these gorgeous short ribs on to cook in their own juices for 3 hours so that they melt in the judge's mouths, and we get the highest score possible, they had better cook through properly!' two or three times, in various wordings, as they do the very same procedure, before and after the ad break. Artificial and tedious for the viewer, imagine how it was for the contestant,who must have had to replay and re-word their actions over and over?
Just while I'm on a compassionate stream of thought: those poor Tassie girls, Thalia and Bianca, who dropped their plates down the stairs also did a promo, saying "sign up for MKR- you will never regret it". How hard must that have been, seeing how they were actually robbed from certain success on the back of that disaster after weeks of hard, almost faultless effort?
Have my impertinent queries ruined the MKR magic for you? Or did it fail to weave a spell over you as well?
How did you feel about the authenticity of the timing, the judging, the results and the audience and contestant reactions in the Grand Final? I smelled a rat, then read later, that the episode, including the staged presentation of a winner, to both finalist teams were filmed over a year ago. The poor teams did not find out until the other night just who had won, and have lived with this unresolved tension for so long, without any kind of acknowledgement (that I am aware of ) for an amazing effort, which certainly outdid any of their previous ones. Well that explains the jerky editing, the very fake reaction of badly acted gracious defeat by Chloe and Kelly, and the hurried and muddled shmozzle that the last scenes were to watch. And maybe, explains the way in which all these so-called 'reality TV' finals are concluded: in a completely hermetically sealed envelope, without a real resolution, until the whole series, in all it's finely edited glory, can be packaged and presented, along with interruptions and a dragging out to the 11th hour, to a distant, ravenous and impersonal audience, who just want a polished product, and none of the 'actual' human factor.
Oh dear. Those poor poor women, those poor winners, and poor losers, all of them. Yep, reality TV is "something you will never regret" hey?
I think I have completed my dissection here. I am sure there will be many more successful reality TV series, which can lay claim to 'real life' scenarios, and real time events. The fact that the MKR product was so removed from the real time of the actual event makes me look at it quite differently than I might have done. For me it's like the difference between factory made, sliced, packaged bread, and a homemade, crusty, imperfect one, that ends up delighting all the same. It smells real, for starters. I do get that the individual challenges themselves were conducted in real time, but really on what actual time-scale did the whole competition take place- weeks? months? Why is this not made known to us? How do those people cope without their families, and why does this not become more of a narrative in the series, as it does, obviously, in the Big Brother House or Top Model?
I would like to see a more rounded, authentic reality TV series about food and cooking, as messy as it might be to produce!
Here is a link to the official Channel Seven MKR Webpage
I'd be interested in comments and discussion about Reality TV in general. What are you likes/dislikes/thoughts?
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Friday, May 17, 2013
the Struggle...
Although I had a traumatic childhood, and life had been tough for me, until the age of 25, in the past 2 and half decades I have fallen on my feet, as it were, and these days enjoy all the comforts of a middle-class middle-aged married woman, who has raised 2 children, who part-owns a couple of properties, and spends good money on good food and good shoes. I have passed through the treacherous waters that is a "mid-life crisis", have seen my kids out of home into independence, and I have embraced the uncomfortable facts about ageing and losing the youth I never felt that I had quite experienced. I have welcomed the next phase of this adventure, life, and have undertaken projects and pursuits which have greatly enhanced and extended me as a person.
It doesn't end here though...so I've found.
The odyssey, if you like, is just beginning.
Somehow, I have managed to find myself neck deep in the quest to become a teacher, a goal I have had tantalisingly dangling in front of me for pretty much all my life. It never went away, properly, in spite of me dodging its inevitability over the years. I even enrolled in a Nursing degree, completing 1 year, and worked as a part-time nursing assistant for a few years, (which I loved). The nine years I spent working in a supporting role as an integration aide were fulfilling and challenging in many ways, but only served to remind me of what I hadn't yet become, and might yet be. Like a thorn in my side, the "vocation" kept "calling" me back, to an idea that was birthed in my heart, at the age of 18.
And so, here I am, doing what I said for a decade I probably wouldn't do, working my butt off to get into a position where, as a middle aged woman, I will then be working even harder to find and keep that elusive teaching job, which, I fully believe, will be very tough work!
I smile as I write all this... I have always had a love/ hate relationship with the idea of "hard work". I hate that people can find themselves in situations where their quality of life is severely hog-tied by the fact that they can not get a job where they are valued, where they feel useful, and where they enjoy the fruits of their labours. I have worked in such jobs only once or twice in my life, but I know many who do this, year in year out. They pay their bills, they go to Bali, they see their 'super' grow. And they stay grey inside. You don't see them all week, and you know that they won't have one single thing they could tell you about their working week that was interesting, or different. They might be grateful for their job, but did their job feed their soul, did it extend them as a person? Isn't that 40 + hours a week they could have been getting meaning out of life, instead of feeding the capitalist machine?
Ok, apart from the obvious "socialist" flavour to my sentiments here, I am really not judging your values, but I am reading my own feelings into the "worker-ant" take on life...and I know it was never meant for me...
...And so this is what I'm doing...
Half-way into a teaching placement at a well funded school in an extremely low-economic area, and my world is turned upside down, yet again, I have to say, I wouldn't be anywhere else for all the tea in China. I wouldn't be doing anything else. The richness of experience I am enjoying right now tops anything I have ever done. I have to write lesson plans and deliver them next week to the toughest audience I have met yet. Forty kids, MOST of whom have had to endure trauma and suffering that no children should ever have to. Things that sadly, I can personally relate to. And I adore these kids. I know each one's name, and although many have emotional, behavioural issues, I can also visualise them as becoming wonderful adults.
I know I haven't bitten off more than I can chew. Yes, I have assignments pending, yes, I have an infection in my sinuses, I am sleeping poorly, and I am emotional, BUT I am... I am GROWING....and since when did growing ever feel comfortable?
It doesn't end here though...so I've found.
The odyssey, if you like, is just beginning.
Somehow, I have managed to find myself neck deep in the quest to become a teacher, a goal I have had tantalisingly dangling in front of me for pretty much all my life. It never went away, properly, in spite of me dodging its inevitability over the years. I even enrolled in a Nursing degree, completing 1 year, and worked as a part-time nursing assistant for a few years, (which I loved). The nine years I spent working in a supporting role as an integration aide were fulfilling and challenging in many ways, but only served to remind me of what I hadn't yet become, and might yet be. Like a thorn in my side, the "vocation" kept "calling" me back, to an idea that was birthed in my heart, at the age of 18.
And so, here I am, doing what I said for a decade I probably wouldn't do, working my butt off to get into a position where, as a middle aged woman, I will then be working even harder to find and keep that elusive teaching job, which, I fully believe, will be very tough work!
I smile as I write all this... I have always had a love/ hate relationship with the idea of "hard work". I hate that people can find themselves in situations where their quality of life is severely hog-tied by the fact that they can not get a job where they are valued, where they feel useful, and where they enjoy the fruits of their labours. I have worked in such jobs only once or twice in my life, but I know many who do this, year in year out. They pay their bills, they go to Bali, they see their 'super' grow. And they stay grey inside. You don't see them all week, and you know that they won't have one single thing they could tell you about their working week that was interesting, or different. They might be grateful for their job, but did their job feed their soul, did it extend them as a person? Isn't that 40 + hours a week they could have been getting meaning out of life, instead of feeding the capitalist machine?
Ok, apart from the obvious "socialist" flavour to my sentiments here, I am really not judging your values, but I am reading my own feelings into the "worker-ant" take on life...and I know it was never meant for me...
...And so this is what I'm doing...
Half-way into a teaching placement at a well funded school in an extremely low-economic area, and my world is turned upside down, yet again, I have to say, I wouldn't be anywhere else for all the tea in China. I wouldn't be doing anything else. The richness of experience I am enjoying right now tops anything I have ever done. I have to write lesson plans and deliver them next week to the toughest audience I have met yet. Forty kids, MOST of whom have had to endure trauma and suffering that no children should ever have to. Things that sadly, I can personally relate to. And I adore these kids. I know each one's name, and although many have emotional, behavioural issues, I can also visualise them as becoming wonderful adults.
I know I haven't bitten off more than I can chew. Yes, I have assignments pending, yes, I have an infection in my sinuses, I am sleeping poorly, and I am emotional, BUT I am... I am GROWING....and since when did growing ever feel comfortable?
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
I'm not sure why...
I'm not sure why, or how, but out of about 10 of us, one of us has had a tougher life than most. I suppose the odds were there. I should be one of the statistics. I know I should be.
I was the one with the single mum, who had lots of "uncles", who grew up way too quickly.
It was a tough neighbourhood. Actually, it was a buffer zone in a tough neighbourhood, where the streets were full of post war nanas and young families. The odd state house meant families like mine lived there as well, but we were well assimilated.
So why Debbie? She had 2 parents, a big sister, security all her life, so I had thought. Only now do I begin to unravel her life, though, and it turns Debbie had a drug dependency. Out of all of us, she was the one to fall prey to an addiction. It could have been any of us then, and I wish we could go back in time, and straighten ourselves out, and make a pact to not let it happen to any of us.
Debbie died this week. I knew she had been having seizures, but I did not realise the extent of her illness. Her big sister, who I had spent some wonderful hours with only months ago, told me about the seizures, and possible tests, and looking back I think she knew her little sister was on borrowed time.
I can't go back to New Zealand in time to say farewell this Friday. It is only a few days away, and my tight teaching practicum schedule means I can't dash away quickly. I would give anything to be there with Cherie this week. She has turned out to be a lynch-pin amongst us; unmarried, no kids, Cherie has lived a very full and interesting life, and is no less warm and devoted to her family, possibly even more so than many. She values the worthy things in life. And she's bright, generous, and tonnes of fun. I'm so glad to have her back in my life after decades of separation.
She looked after me so well in Auckland last year; nothing was too much trouble for her. We swanned about in a big black mercedes, talking nine to the dozen, trying to fill in all those years of living our individual years...
Catching up with those girls at the reunion in December meant we have open channels of communication again. And it was meant to be.
I will go back and see Cherie, as soon as I can, over this next year, and we will sit down and reminisce about our childhoods, in that healthy, healing way that people do. Hayley and Christine, maybe Karen B, Alison, Karen L, even Lizzie might be there. And Marcus. I hope we can all be together again, even if just to say goodbye to Debbie, who will be very much missed. I cannot quite believe that one of us is gone, already. We are all in our late 40's now. She leaves two teenage boys. Cherie will be all she can be to them, and is already anyway. What an amazing sister.
We will miss Debbie, who leaves a big hole in our midst. She was a bit of a naughty scamp. Bye Bye Debbie x
I was the one with the single mum, who had lots of "uncles", who grew up way too quickly.
It was a tough neighbourhood. Actually, it was a buffer zone in a tough neighbourhood, where the streets were full of post war nanas and young families. The odd state house meant families like mine lived there as well, but we were well assimilated.
So why Debbie? She had 2 parents, a big sister, security all her life, so I had thought. Only now do I begin to unravel her life, though, and it turns Debbie had a drug dependency. Out of all of us, she was the one to fall prey to an addiction. It could have been any of us then, and I wish we could go back in time, and straighten ourselves out, and make a pact to not let it happen to any of us.
Debbie died this week. I knew she had been having seizures, but I did not realise the extent of her illness. Her big sister, who I had spent some wonderful hours with only months ago, told me about the seizures, and possible tests, and looking back I think she knew her little sister was on borrowed time.
I can't go back to New Zealand in time to say farewell this Friday. It is only a few days away, and my tight teaching practicum schedule means I can't dash away quickly. I would give anything to be there with Cherie this week. She has turned out to be a lynch-pin amongst us; unmarried, no kids, Cherie has lived a very full and interesting life, and is no less warm and devoted to her family, possibly even more so than many. She values the worthy things in life. And she's bright, generous, and tonnes of fun. I'm so glad to have her back in my life after decades of separation.
She looked after me so well in Auckland last year; nothing was too much trouble for her. We swanned about in a big black mercedes, talking nine to the dozen, trying to fill in all those years of living our individual years...
Catching up with those girls at the reunion in December meant we have open channels of communication again. And it was meant to be.
I will go back and see Cherie, as soon as I can, over this next year, and we will sit down and reminisce about our childhoods, in that healthy, healing way that people do. Hayley and Christine, maybe Karen B, Alison, Karen L, even Lizzie might be there. And Marcus. I hope we can all be together again, even if just to say goodbye to Debbie, who will be very much missed. I cannot quite believe that one of us is gone, already. We are all in our late 40's now. She leaves two teenage boys. Cherie will be all she can be to them, and is already anyway. What an amazing sister.
We will miss Debbie, who leaves a big hole in our midst. She was a bit of a naughty scamp. Bye Bye Debbie x
Friday, November 23, 2012
The Lonely Ride back to where it began...
Today I am forcing myself to write, as it does not come easily these days; the ability to rave on ceaselessly just doesn't flow as it used to.
To complicate my sudden lack of literary confidence, I am going to take a trek back into my past very soon, to my old primary school in NZ where so many good and a few terrible things happened to me. In a couple of weeks there will be a reunion there, on the site, which is in a short time due to be demolished to make way for a highway by-pass and tunnel.
It is a painful and daunting process, just considering if and how I might write about this event. I feel a whole range of emotions, from fearful to elated, and the recollections render me tearful and nostalgic in brief bursts. I'm sure as the reunion draws closer, it will get more intense and become all encompassing.
Writing about it is something I know I MUST do and cannot avoid, as much as I would like to.
Firstly I want to document a couple of events that happened to me there, good ones, ones I want to share with the Heritage Project site that has been set up to archive and share such things.
And I also want to background this blog a little, share some of who I am and where I've come from- it will save me having to continually dip into and retrieve out of the swamp some of my story.
I know I'm being hugely dramatic here- it is really only me that experiences the uncomfortable twisted knots of emotion when discussing my childhood, and I'm sure it doesn't read as sordidly as all that...there were some very bright moments in my childhood, and a couple of them involved Waterview Primary School, for which I am incredibly grateful...
I attended Waterview Primary School from half way into my 1st year of school in 1969 until I finished as a Senior student there in 1974. I am pretty sure I turned 6 after we moved to Waterview from Henderson, in late 1969. I turned 10 in April 1974, and was one of the youngest of our group. Most of us were headed for Avondale Intermediate, and from there on we scattered slightly- but most went on to attend Avondale College.
We had a very tight-knit group; right from the early days I was there in a split grade in Primer 3/4 with a few kids in the older group. I can see some of those kids in my mind's eye, right now. A vivid memory was on my very first day, when the teacher left the room for a moment and a very cheeky handsome boy called Gordon Brown pegged Ngamatua Cook's pigtails to the rope that we strung our artworks on. She was very distressed; although we felt sorry for her we laughed, and I think there was subsequently quite a quite a bit of trouble for Gordon that day as everyone hung him out to dry when the teacher came back...
I also remember that later on though, Gordon Brown stuck up for me in the playground, when I was being picked on by bigger kids, and I think he might have at that moment become my very first 'crush'!
That's me, 2nd from the left on the bottom row, between Deirdre Lyons and Helen Deason. There's Ngamatua, 2nd from left on the 3rd row. And there's Gordon Brown, 3rd from the right, 2nd row. Mrs Morgan was our teacher that year.
In Standard 1 our teacher the lovely Miss Grover became Mrs Lynch one weekend, and a few of us went to watch her arrive at her wedding in New Lynn in a fairy tail style horse drawn coach.
Miss Deborah Tingly, in Standard 2, introduced us to the wonderful world of JRR Tolkein, and my love for all things 'Hobbity' since then has endured, and I've passed it down to my own children. Miss Tingly drove a mustard coloured VW with words 'SauerKraut' swirled on its door. She was extremely pretty and young. She also taught us Cat Stevens songs, which I was getting a double dose of, at home with mum. She was probably the coolest teacher anyone could have hoped for, and her encouragement to me in that year that I turned 8 was extremely significant.
Standard 3 saw our class enter a prolonged and unsettling phase as teachers came and went, including the enigmatic Welshman, Mr Booth, who was hilarious fun unless you got him angry, and the boys often did. Mrs Apted had us for a time, and although I had always been a bit scared of her, she was one of the best teachers I can remember- a pity we didn't get her for a full year.
The very funny Mr Booth is our teacher here. I'm down the front, 2nd to the end on the right, between Christine Rogers and Nyree ?
Then came Standard 4 and it was again quite tumultuous, as far as having a permanent teacher was concerned.
At least we were fortunate enough to have Mr Steve Bartley for some of the time.
It was during this couple of terms that I recollect some of my happiest times at Waterview.
As senior students we required to clean up the staffroom on a rostered basis, doing the dishes and wiping the tables. I remember going up there to do it; the smell and the atmosphere of the room, and loving that opportunity look out of that window where the teachers no doubt often looked down on us playing from above.
Another thing I loved to do at school was sing in the choir, and have the opportunity to perform at the combined schools choir in the Auckland Town Hall, in front of hundreds of people, accompanied by the massive pipe organ. Mrs Trevetta and Mrs Marsh taught us painstakingly to sing really technical pieces which came together incredibly when all 600 children from various schools around Auckland sang as a combined choir. This experience was just awesome to a kid of nine or ten such as I was then. My brother was involved too, he had a beautiful boy's soprano in those days, and I'm sure he would hate me sharing it.
One day Mr Bartley told me he had something very important he had to tell me after school. It seemed to me that I must have done something very bad, and was in trouble. I was nervous all day, waiting for the bell to go and everyone to disappear. Finally the moment arrived, but Mr Bartley called me out of the room just before the bell, so everyone in the class would have seen me go out, compounding my sense of terror about what was to come.
He leaned on the door frame with a twinkle in his eye and said something like "now you're in trouble!" just to make me feel even worse.
But he then told me, or did he ask me? that he wanted me to present a farewell speech and gifts from the school to our principal, Mr Taylor, at a special assembly. I was stunned to be asked, it felt like SUCH a huge honour. Mr Taylor was about to go on a world cruise with his wife to kick off his retirement, and so the school had bought him a set of matching luggage.
Needless to say, in spite of my feeling pretty unworthy, it turned out that I was just the person for the job- and took on the task very seriously, writing myself a lovely little speech which I practiced about 50 times in front of the mirror that week.
I had a special outfit to wear, a very fashionable vinyl pinafore with a skinny-ribbed jumper underneath, complete with my blue lace-up leather shoes.
Standard 4, the Pinnacle of our Primary School Education: I'm in the bottom row in the vinyl dress, 4th from left. Mr Steve Bartley is our teacher.
The day for the assembly arrived, and behind all the excitement was a definite feeling of sadness too, as I was pretty fond of Mr Taylor as a principal and didn't really like that he was leaving.
I really don't remember much about that assembly, let alone what I said in my speech, all I know is that it was well received.
I do however, remember that Mr Taylor responded with firstly commenting that he had seen me in my vinyl dress and the suitcases, which happened to match perfectly, and decided that I was off on a big trip! Perfect words to say to me to make me laugh and loosen up- and I at least haven't forgotten that bit.
That was a great moment in my primary school life; a time that had had its share of ups and downs. I suppose academically I had found everything at school pretty easy, but socially and emotionally I hadn't found it as easy as it obviously was for some. Life at home was pretty difficult and this was sometimes reflected in the way I interacted at school, in that I was pretty insecure.
It was lovely to get that validation and approval from the teachers and staff at a pivotal time in my life, and I'm sure it has reminded me to believe in myself enough to continue to strive for success as an adult.
I have plenty of other good stories about Waterview Primary, in fact, at this moment they are ALL I can remember. Mostly though, I remember those children I spent so much time with, and how they affected me then. They are still so vividly present in my memories and I can see each one, hear their voices, remember their idiosyncrasies, even their handwriting in some cases! I wonder what they are doing now? I do know what a few of them are doing... but what about Gordon Brown?
To complicate my sudden lack of literary confidence, I am going to take a trek back into my past very soon, to my old primary school in NZ where so many good and a few terrible things happened to me. In a couple of weeks there will be a reunion there, on the site, which is in a short time due to be demolished to make way for a highway by-pass and tunnel.
It is a painful and daunting process, just considering if and how I might write about this event. I feel a whole range of emotions, from fearful to elated, and the recollections render me tearful and nostalgic in brief bursts. I'm sure as the reunion draws closer, it will get more intense and become all encompassing.
Writing about it is something I know I MUST do and cannot avoid, as much as I would like to.
Firstly I want to document a couple of events that happened to me there, good ones, ones I want to share with the Heritage Project site that has been set up to archive and share such things.
And I also want to background this blog a little, share some of who I am and where I've come from- it will save me having to continually dip into and retrieve out of the swamp some of my story.
I know I'm being hugely dramatic here- it is really only me that experiences the uncomfortable twisted knots of emotion when discussing my childhood, and I'm sure it doesn't read as sordidly as all that...there were some very bright moments in my childhood, and a couple of them involved Waterview Primary School, for which I am incredibly grateful...
1st day of school, 1970, Me, (brother) Marcus, Christine and Lizzie Burke
We had a very tight-knit group; right from the early days I was there in a split grade in Primer 3/4 with a few kids in the older group. I can see some of those kids in my mind's eye, right now. A vivid memory was on my very first day, when the teacher left the room for a moment and a very cheeky handsome boy called Gordon Brown pegged Ngamatua Cook's pigtails to the rope that we strung our artworks on. She was very distressed; although we felt sorry for her we laughed, and I think there was subsequently quite a quite a bit of trouble for Gordon that day as everyone hung him out to dry when the teacher came back...
I also remember that later on though, Gordon Brown stuck up for me in the playground, when I was being picked on by bigger kids, and I think he might have at that moment become my very first 'crush'!
That's me, 2nd from the left on the bottom row, between Deirdre Lyons and Helen Deason. There's Ngamatua, 2nd from left on the 3rd row. And there's Gordon Brown, 3rd from the right, 2nd row. Mrs Morgan was our teacher that year.
In Standard 1 our teacher the lovely Miss Grover became Mrs Lynch one weekend, and a few of us went to watch her arrive at her wedding in New Lynn in a fairy tail style horse drawn coach.
Mrs Lynch is on the right- wasn't she a fashion plate? We girls adored her. That's me top 2nd from left, between Kevan Bartlett and Cherie Final
Miss Deborah Tingly, in Standard 2, introduced us to the wonderful world of JRR Tolkein, and my love for all things 'Hobbity' since then has endured, and I've passed it down to my own children. Miss Tingly drove a mustard coloured VW with words 'SauerKraut' swirled on its door. She was extremely pretty and young. She also taught us Cat Stevens songs, which I was getting a double dose of, at home with mum. She was probably the coolest teacher anyone could have hoped for, and her encouragement to me in that year that I turned 8 was extremely significant.
Standard 3 saw our class enter a prolonged and unsettling phase as teachers came and went, including the enigmatic Welshman, Mr Booth, who was hilarious fun unless you got him angry, and the boys often did. Mrs Apted had us for a time, and although I had always been a bit scared of her, she was one of the best teachers I can remember- a pity we didn't get her for a full year.
Then came Standard 4 and it was again quite tumultuous, as far as having a permanent teacher was concerned.
At least we were fortunate enough to have Mr Steve Bartley for some of the time.
It was during this couple of terms that I recollect some of my happiest times at Waterview.
As senior students we required to clean up the staffroom on a rostered basis, doing the dishes and wiping the tables. I remember going up there to do it; the smell and the atmosphere of the room, and loving that opportunity look out of that window where the teachers no doubt often looked down on us playing from above.
Another thing I loved to do at school was sing in the choir, and have the opportunity to perform at the combined schools choir in the Auckland Town Hall, in front of hundreds of people, accompanied by the massive pipe organ. Mrs Trevetta and Mrs Marsh taught us painstakingly to sing really technical pieces which came together incredibly when all 600 children from various schools around Auckland sang as a combined choir. This experience was just awesome to a kid of nine or ten such as I was then. My brother was involved too, he had a beautiful boy's soprano in those days, and I'm sure he would hate me sharing it.
One day Mr Bartley told me he had something very important he had to tell me after school. It seemed to me that I must have done something very bad, and was in trouble. I was nervous all day, waiting for the bell to go and everyone to disappear. Finally the moment arrived, but Mr Bartley called me out of the room just before the bell, so everyone in the class would have seen me go out, compounding my sense of terror about what was to come.
He leaned on the door frame with a twinkle in his eye and said something like "now you're in trouble!" just to make me feel even worse.
But he then told me, or did he ask me? that he wanted me to present a farewell speech and gifts from the school to our principal, Mr Taylor, at a special assembly. I was stunned to be asked, it felt like SUCH a huge honour. Mr Taylor was about to go on a world cruise with his wife to kick off his retirement, and so the school had bought him a set of matching luggage.
Needless to say, in spite of my feeling pretty unworthy, it turned out that I was just the person for the job- and took on the task very seriously, writing myself a lovely little speech which I practiced about 50 times in front of the mirror that week.
I had a special outfit to wear, a very fashionable vinyl pinafore with a skinny-ribbed jumper underneath, complete with my blue lace-up leather shoes.
The day for the assembly arrived, and behind all the excitement was a definite feeling of sadness too, as I was pretty fond of Mr Taylor as a principal and didn't really like that he was leaving.
I really don't remember much about that assembly, let alone what I said in my speech, all I know is that it was well received.
I do however, remember that Mr Taylor responded with firstly commenting that he had seen me in my vinyl dress and the suitcases, which happened to match perfectly, and decided that I was off on a big trip! Perfect words to say to me to make me laugh and loosen up- and I at least haven't forgotten that bit.
That was a great moment in my primary school life; a time that had had its share of ups and downs. I suppose academically I had found everything at school pretty easy, but socially and emotionally I hadn't found it as easy as it obviously was for some. Life at home was pretty difficult and this was sometimes reflected in the way I interacted at school, in that I was pretty insecure.
It was lovely to get that validation and approval from the teachers and staff at a pivotal time in my life, and I'm sure it has reminded me to believe in myself enough to continue to strive for success as an adult.
I have plenty of other good stories about Waterview Primary, in fact, at this moment they are ALL I can remember. Mostly though, I remember those children I spent so much time with, and how they affected me then. They are still so vividly present in my memories and I can see each one, hear their voices, remember their idiosyncrasies, even their handwriting in some cases! I wonder what they are doing now? I do know what a few of them are doing... but what about Gordon Brown?
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
A Year Of Post-grad Wilderness...
It's been a year now, since I put down my pen after completing my under-graduate degree in Arts, majoring in Literature. I am indulging in some self reflective assessment of this past 12 months, since I had vaguely thrown out to the universe some suggestions as to how this year might be best lived. I'm not sure I have really done it justice, however, and I have a sense of regret about some aspects of it. Yes, I have had plenty of opportunities to reconnect with family in meaningful ways, and this has been largely fruitful. But how I have spent my days at home, and how I have conducted my relationships back in my home town of Geelong, demonstrate that I have been lazy and disorganised at the best of times. The other times I have been either disabled to an extent by various illnesses and injuries, or have suffered bouts of depression, or, often, suffered both at the same time.
I thought this year was going to be about gardening, cleaning, sorting, and taking charge of my home environment and about reconnecting with friends that I left along the roadside as I scrambled the last year of my degree together. I have failed to do any of it. I thought I might have written copious blogs or expressed myself creatively through painting or craft, and I haven't done those things either. I've picked up, and discarded again, ukelele and my guitar playing. Typically, when I'm at home, I am lost and unmotivated. The dust is settling even more thickly on all my course materials and writings from my degree, sitting in the bookshelf.
However.... read on below...
Sunday, July 22, 2012
"My Life", The Musical.
Sometimes you have a moment, when the events around about you create a vortex, and you realize that your life is not a mere cacophony of accidents, which just happen to form a pattern because of the serendipity of random events.
Yesterday, the violins swelled in the background, and the harmononious symphony of life sprang into glorious orchestral proportions, as it occasionally does, from time to time.
A crescendo of joyful noises, which all melded into a refrain that made me want to sing, seemed to ooze out of seemly random circumstances. A series of wires connected, the amplifier was plugged in, and the "stage Musical" of my life and of those around me seemed to jump into action as a beautifully scripted song.
If Hugh Jackman had entered the scene wearing a cowboy hat and singing and dancing at that point I simply would have carried on, and not skipped a beat.
Bear with me as I wax poetic- there is a reason for it.
Perhaps I need to backtrack further to events of last week. These relate to someone close to me, who has found herself embroiled in a soap opera of her own. Unbelievably complex in dimensions, a series of connections and dramas had touched her own life, in a way which to me that seemed to be straight out of a daytime TV drama. Someone she thought she had feelings for was in love with someone that another friend had loved for many years. The story doesn't end here, it is ongoing, and the songs which could be written in this tale could be very poignant, stirring, tragic and operatic in the extreme. The "someone" at the centre of the love-triangle was causing a good deal of trouble for all the individuals involved, but trying to do it under a pseudonym. It was all being played out on social media, making it seem even more dramatic. Because real people with real feelings were involved, it could have ended very badly. Do you know of a similar plot line? It was inconceivable to my friend and those of us closest to her that this actual situation could be happening, in real time, and yet it was all too real. The 'conclusion' however, has been a much more pleasant one than was predicted. The score at this time could be written by Lloyd Weber himself, and the aria sung by my friend was prophetically belted out by her in a karaoke bar one drunken night not so long ago: "My Heart Will Go On". Little she realize it really WOULD go on, and eventually, happily, because her own musical is thankfully veering away from this Greek Tragedy scenario.
So what is the refrain behind my musical at the moment? Well it's not something from anything more musically wonderful than the very weird but wonderful HMS Pinafore, I've often thought. It is true, I found out my real dad was alive, and living in another country, at 33 years of age, 14 1/2 years ago, and that I had another whole family, another whole dimension to my life, and a whole new future to walk into. I heard the violins at that time. I knew I was no "accident" or hiccup in my mother's life. Not just a haphazard arrangement of molecules called Briar, a thorn in the side for most of the family, but someone whose life suddenly made sense. The words and lyrics seemed suddenly to me to be in harmony, my feet were dancing, and I was, momentarily on stage, as a player in a colorful scene from something like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical. It was a cathartically wonderful event to walk into that reality; having a father as well as a mother, and life has seemed to be more musically charged ever since.
I always have had theme music I guess, but it seems more significant to me, as I go on. It changes from day to day- I can get stuck on a plot line... The music can falter and fade from hearing at times, as I doubt the worthiness of a tune... The authenticity of a lyric...but the melody always comes back in, on cue, when certain other things work together...the rhythm, the timing, the inspiration, working in harmony. Like now.
Yesterday the simple exchange of excited chit chat and banter between myself and my son's partner of nearly three years revealed a connection that blew us all away. Her new friend has a husband who happens to be the son of people I knew in a very different context, almost 30 years ago. There, a simple coincidence, maybe, but then, what a wonderful one! When I knew this young man's parents, I was younger than these young people are now. I knew them before they got together, and was at their wedding,about 28 years ago. I remember when this young man was born, as he shares my birthday. They lived in another state, as I did, and our sons were born at the same hospital, about 18 months apart. They have gone their separate ways, but I remember them both as remarkably intelligent and compassionate people, and I do happen to be a Facebook friend of the mother of this boy. We're not in conversation much, but perhaps we will be more so now. I can't wait to tell her about this connection, through our offspring. She writes, too. That our kids have become friends in another city, 26 years later, in a city of 4 million people, in another state, just makes me feel as though we are all in someone's very big, Michener style epic. Maybe we are? What is the song playing today, you may wonder? I'm not entirely sure. It could be a Bob Dylan-style ballad of 48 stanzas (so far), one that is still being written... One thing I do know, the music score is simply magnificent, full of light and shade, depth and drama...
Perhaps I need to backtrack further to events of last week. These relate to someone close to me, who has found herself embroiled in a soap opera of her own. Unbelievably complex in dimensions, a series of connections and dramas had touched her own life, in a way which to me that seemed to be straight out of a daytime TV drama. Someone she thought she had feelings for was in love with someone that another friend had loved for many years. The story doesn't end here, it is ongoing, and the songs which could be written in this tale could be very poignant, stirring, tragic and operatic in the extreme. The "someone" at the centre of the love-triangle was causing a good deal of trouble for all the individuals involved, but trying to do it under a pseudonym. It was all being played out on social media, making it seem even more dramatic. Because real people with real feelings were involved, it could have ended very badly. Do you know of a similar plot line? It was inconceivable to my friend and those of us closest to her that this actual situation could be happening, in real time, and yet it was all too real. The 'conclusion' however, has been a much more pleasant one than was predicted. The score at this time could be written by Lloyd Weber himself, and the aria sung by my friend was prophetically belted out by her in a karaoke bar one drunken night not so long ago: "My Heart Will Go On". Little she realize it really WOULD go on, and eventually, happily, because her own musical is thankfully veering away from this Greek Tragedy scenario.
So what is the refrain behind my musical at the moment? Well it's not something from anything more musically wonderful than the very weird but wonderful HMS Pinafore, I've often thought. It is true, I found out my real dad was alive, and living in another country, at 33 years of age, 14 1/2 years ago, and that I had another whole family, another whole dimension to my life, and a whole new future to walk into. I heard the violins at that time. I knew I was no "accident" or hiccup in my mother's life. Not just a haphazard arrangement of molecules called Briar, a thorn in the side for most of the family, but someone whose life suddenly made sense. The words and lyrics seemed suddenly to me to be in harmony, my feet were dancing, and I was, momentarily on stage, as a player in a colorful scene from something like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical. It was a cathartically wonderful event to walk into that reality; having a father as well as a mother, and life has seemed to be more musically charged ever since.
I always have had theme music I guess, but it seems more significant to me, as I go on. It changes from day to day- I can get stuck on a plot line... The music can falter and fade from hearing at times, as I doubt the worthiness of a tune... The authenticity of a lyric...but the melody always comes back in, on cue, when certain other things work together...the rhythm, the timing, the inspiration, working in harmony. Like now.
Yesterday the simple exchange of excited chit chat and banter between myself and my son's partner of nearly three years revealed a connection that blew us all away. Her new friend has a husband who happens to be the son of people I knew in a very different context, almost 30 years ago. There, a simple coincidence, maybe, but then, what a wonderful one! When I knew this young man's parents, I was younger than these young people are now. I knew them before they got together, and was at their wedding,about 28 years ago. I remember when this young man was born, as he shares my birthday. They lived in another state, as I did, and our sons were born at the same hospital, about 18 months apart. They have gone their separate ways, but I remember them both as remarkably intelligent and compassionate people, and I do happen to be a Facebook friend of the mother of this boy. We're not in conversation much, but perhaps we will be more so now. I can't wait to tell her about this connection, through our offspring. She writes, too. That our kids have become friends in another city, 26 years later, in a city of 4 million people, in another state, just makes me feel as though we are all in someone's very big, Michener style epic. Maybe we are? What is the song playing today, you may wonder? I'm not entirely sure. It could be a Bob Dylan-style ballad of 48 stanzas (so far), one that is still being written... One thing I do know, the music score is simply magnificent, full of light and shade, depth and drama...
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Three girls, three journeys, three pairs of boots.
We met through the internet- forums and social media - three women whose lives crossed over and connected in almost bizarre ways. Two of us parents, two of us living in Australia, two of us met on a weight-loss website, all of us connected over music and literature, (but not necessarily the same music), two of us over our living/having lived in the same town, two of us loved to share recipes and cooking tips, two of us met through the third person. We all shared our love of an AFL football team, the Geelong Cats, to be exact. And a mutual recognition that we three were attracted to each others minds and personalities and intellects. With that mutual attraction comes a respect for each one, we don't crowd nor demand of each other anything we wouldn't want to expect of ourselves. We're all different, with different dreams and aspirations, but all three are ready to embark on an adventure of fun and friendship.
We have recently enjoyed a road-trip together and not only survived but thrived on a week of intense time living, travelling and sharing a tiny car, and sometimes a tiny living space. Secrets were divulged, passions shared and tears shed, midst much laughter and silliness. There was an agenda to this trip, and we shared the mission, although it only one of us who was directly involved. It didn't matter- we became a holy trinity of sorts, and all lived through the odyssey.
There are nearly two decades in age between myself and the youngest of us, but I truly believe Mel and I are soul sisters, having lived parallel lives. Kirrily fits in the middle of us in age, and her warmth, knowledge and breadth of experience meshes us all. Her sense of humour and innate intelligence magnetises Mel and I towards her. Inexplicably we gel as a threesome, and yet enjoy a relative freedom of individuality as well. We seem to know how to flow together, all on our slightly different levels of energy and on our respective trajectories of personal growth.
Why does this work so well?
How come friendship groups I have been in before this have been more hard work, less fun, and ultimately not as successful?
On my part- something I am not necessarily proud of, but I am aware that I am not an easy person to get to know, nor to be a friend to.
I've had hits and misses with people over the years. But some of my most enduring friendships are those that have happily puddled on the surface of life, and haven't had to get too nitty or gritty.
Not to dismiss these sometimes very comforting friendships as meaningless at all, but I know that I still crave that depth with people and very seldom feel sated, even after lots of social activity.
I have on and off through the years had some intense bursts of passionate liaison with people I thought I might be able to connect with on that heart to heart level. But there were gaps between us in our thinking, in our ability to listen uncritically, to trust, and most importantly our values were somehow misaligned. Maybe the timing wasn't there, or we were heading in different directions, and we eventually mutually went towards our own paths.
So how come I can have so much fun with people now- where once I found it difficult to be intimate with people, especially people I caved to be near?
Perhaps some tough experiences have not necessarily made me tougher, but have made me slower to judge, less ready to take offence. More open and willing to learn from my soul sisters, without doubting who I am and what I believe.
Perhaps I will one day be the friend I always wanted to have, myself.
Meanwhile I love that I am accepted as I am, quite the warty, imperfect thing that I am.
As for my lovely friends, I love that they are the wonderful, accepting and open people they are, and am grateful for the colour they bring to my life. I adore both of them and respect that they are strong, outspoken and full of integrity.
Oh- and the boots?
My surplus of boots on our recent trip became a great asset to us all, as we were able to mix and match outfits and go out on the town feeling quite the hotties that we are...
So we are permanently sharing them now.
The sisterhood that began with a wheel of delicious StAgur cheese we shared over Margaritas last summer, ie the "SaintAgur Sisterhood" has now become a "Sisterhood of the Travelling Boots", and who know what the next incarnation will be?
We have recently enjoyed a road-trip together and not only survived but thrived on a week of intense time living, travelling and sharing a tiny car, and sometimes a tiny living space. Secrets were divulged, passions shared and tears shed, midst much laughter and silliness. There was an agenda to this trip, and we shared the mission, although it only one of us who was directly involved. It didn't matter- we became a holy trinity of sorts, and all lived through the odyssey.
There are nearly two decades in age between myself and the youngest of us, but I truly believe Mel and I are soul sisters, having lived parallel lives. Kirrily fits in the middle of us in age, and her warmth, knowledge and breadth of experience meshes us all. Her sense of humour and innate intelligence magnetises Mel and I towards her. Inexplicably we gel as a threesome, and yet enjoy a relative freedom of individuality as well. We seem to know how to flow together, all on our slightly different levels of energy and on our respective trajectories of personal growth.
Why does this work so well?
How come friendship groups I have been in before this have been more hard work, less fun, and ultimately not as successful?
On my part- something I am not necessarily proud of, but I am aware that I am not an easy person to get to know, nor to be a friend to.
I've had hits and misses with people over the years. But some of my most enduring friendships are those that have happily puddled on the surface of life, and haven't had to get too nitty or gritty.
Not to dismiss these sometimes very comforting friendships as meaningless at all, but I know that I still crave that depth with people and very seldom feel sated, even after lots of social activity.
I have on and off through the years had some intense bursts of passionate liaison with people I thought I might be able to connect with on that heart to heart level. But there were gaps between us in our thinking, in our ability to listen uncritically, to trust, and most importantly our values were somehow misaligned. Maybe the timing wasn't there, or we were heading in different directions, and we eventually mutually went towards our own paths.
So how come I can have so much fun with people now- where once I found it difficult to be intimate with people, especially people I caved to be near?
Perhaps some tough experiences have not necessarily made me tougher, but have made me slower to judge, less ready to take offence. More open and willing to learn from my soul sisters, without doubting who I am and what I believe.
Perhaps I will one day be the friend I always wanted to have, myself.
Meanwhile I love that I am accepted as I am, quite the warty, imperfect thing that I am.
As for my lovely friends, I love that they are the wonderful, accepting and open people they are, and am grateful for the colour they bring to my life. I adore both of them and respect that they are strong, outspoken and full of integrity.
Oh- and the boots?
My surplus of boots on our recent trip became a great asset to us all, as we were able to mix and match outfits and go out on the town feeling quite the hotties that we are...
So we are permanently sharing them now.
The sisterhood that began with a wheel of delicious StAgur cheese we shared over Margaritas last summer, ie the "SaintAgur Sisterhood" has now become a "Sisterhood of the Travelling Boots", and who know what the next incarnation will be?
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Like Breathing, I'm Writing.
It feels SO good to be back-
After an interminably long absence from writing, I finally find the flood gates have opened again.
One little nudge, or let's say two little nudges, come to think of it there were three...
Anyway, they worked, and got me over my hump. Who's to say I might have decided to get there alone, and managed to wander back on to the track without any assistance, but I like to think we are all interconnected and DO all help each other along, and for that I am very grateful for the encouragement of others.
I have two long months doing long and short trips, half of them by road and half by air. I have been in Auckland, Adelaide, the Gold Coast, the Tweed Coast, the Sunshine Coast and Mallacoota.
Some of it was with family, some with friends, and some was in a semi-professional capacity.
It has all been an incredible time, an odyssey in both physical and personal terms.
When I think of some of the ups and downs I went through I am reminded of that wonderful movie starring Ingrid Bergman, Inn of the Sixth Happiness. No wonder I like to challenge myself. Life is far too easy for me here in white bread Australia!
The journeys here and there, the friendships, the fun, the strains and difficulties switched my brain on again and hence I have overcome my irrational fear of overcoming "password-lock-out" and got myself back into this particular blog to resume the story of me. Watch this space, as I begin to unravel my Post-Degree Adventures...
After an interminably long absence from writing, I finally find the flood gates have opened again.
One little nudge, or let's say two little nudges, come to think of it there were three...
Anyway, they worked, and got me over my hump. Who's to say I might have decided to get there alone, and managed to wander back on to the track without any assistance, but I like to think we are all interconnected and DO all help each other along, and for that I am very grateful for the encouragement of others.
I have two long months doing long and short trips, half of them by road and half by air. I have been in Auckland, Adelaide, the Gold Coast, the Tweed Coast, the Sunshine Coast and Mallacoota.
Some of it was with family, some with friends, and some was in a semi-professional capacity.
It has all been an incredible time, an odyssey in both physical and personal terms.
When I think of some of the ups and downs I went through I am reminded of that wonderful movie starring Ingrid Bergman, Inn of the Sixth Happiness. No wonder I like to challenge myself. Life is far too easy for me here in white bread Australia!
Sunday, September 25, 2011
You know you shouldn't be wasting time on a Blog Post darling- you have 2 essays to write in 8 days, during which time there is the Brownlow Medal count, and a Grand Final, or "Granny". You also have to attend lectures, do your readings, submit an online quiz... come on luvvy, you are only human and why do you think you have all the time in the world to just blab on and on and on and on and on?
god I'm really craving a good go at a Scrabble Board or Words with Friends by Zynga or something.... crave it like I used to crave sex really... but that's another sad, sad story and we won't go there... not right now anyway...
Look you're writing a damn fine essay, your lecturer thinks you're fantastic, wants to offer you a scholarship in Computer studies or some such bullish, (as if) and anyway, you KNOW this particular piece does not have to have the "Knock-em-dead" power that the Anthropology one does, (Scares the pants off me it does.) This time next week I should be a piece of blubbering poo...
god I'm really craving a good go at a Scrabble Board or Words with Friends by Zynga or something.... crave it like I used to crave sex really... but that's another sad, sad story and we won't go there... not right now anyway...
Look you're writing a damn fine essay, your lecturer thinks you're fantastic, wants to offer you a scholarship in Computer studies or some such bullish, (as if) and anyway, you KNOW this particular piece does not have to have the "Knock-em-dead" power that the Anthropology one does, (Scares the pants off me it does.) This time next week I should be a piece of blubbering poo...
Monday, September 19, 2011
New Horizons
I neglect to write, and it does me no good!
I am torn between sharing my life and not sharing it- there is a part of me that is a very private person- but I am often having imaginary conversations about things in my my head anyway... so why not write them down? Maybe I will get the feedback I long for...
Ok, so what is happening?... I am now in the last three units of my degree, and what a wonderful feeling it has been, knowing that it is about to be finished- fancy Briar actually finishing something for once! I have also felt a bit lost, bereft and without aim not knowing what the future holds for me, once I have finished.
I have briefly looked into and toyed with the idea of doing further studies.
I kept that idea in my head, and then had some things dawn on me over the last week or so...
I have undertaken an essay in one of my favourite subjects, Philosophy, on other favourite subjects, Films and Literature. I have also rediscovered a love for writing and reading about such things. And an ability I had forgotten and neglected.
I had seriously considered a future in studying/teaching History- I am also passionate about this, particularly where it pertains to the History of Aboriginal peoples in the colonised Pacific, including Australia and New Zealand. This is what this blog is supposed to be about, to a degree. I specifically wanted this to relate what I found out about Histories of food and food cultures. I am still very interested in this, but as you can see I haven't made one single step further in this regard.
Anyway, while these ideas about History/Food/culture remain on the back burner, I am pursuing the idea of doing an MA in Writing and Literature, as Coursework. (as opposed to Research).
I have taken a huge step, and have made an appointment to speak to a past lecturer of mine, in itself a scary thing for me, and have spilled my guts to him in and in turn received some very positive feedback. I was in one of my very fired-up, enthusiastic and full-of-hope manias. I have now sent an email to a person responsible for this course, to ask for information. I am making steps toward committing myself to this path. Further study. Brainy Briar. It used to be my nickname. I was initially really excited. Could I really be fulfilling a long-held dream of mine to immerse further in academic study, and see it through to it's end? could I be a published author? lecturer? speaker? It seemed too good to be true, just to me, to hear that the possibilities were real and achievable.
Today, however, I am full of trepidation. I am full of self-doubt. I am seriously wondering who am I trying to kid? What makes me think I can do this?
The Lecturer said he believed I could. I really am trying to believe I can. I just doubt I can.
I am not satisfied with the idea of "just a degree", but I also wonder if I am as good as I dream about being.
I am torn between sharing my life and not sharing it- there is a part of me that is a very private person- but I am often having imaginary conversations about things in my my head anyway... so why not write them down? Maybe I will get the feedback I long for...
Ok, so what is happening?... I am now in the last three units of my degree, and what a wonderful feeling it has been, knowing that it is about to be finished- fancy Briar actually finishing something for once! I have also felt a bit lost, bereft and without aim not knowing what the future holds for me, once I have finished.
I have briefly looked into and toyed with the idea of doing further studies.
I kept that idea in my head, and then had some things dawn on me over the last week or so...
I have undertaken an essay in one of my favourite subjects, Philosophy, on other favourite subjects, Films and Literature. I have also rediscovered a love for writing and reading about such things. And an ability I had forgotten and neglected.
I had seriously considered a future in studying/teaching History- I am also passionate about this, particularly where it pertains to the History of Aboriginal peoples in the colonised Pacific, including Australia and New Zealand. This is what this blog is supposed to be about, to a degree. I specifically wanted this to relate what I found out about Histories of food and food cultures. I am still very interested in this, but as you can see I haven't made one single step further in this regard.
Anyway, while these ideas about History/Food/culture remain on the back burner, I am pursuing the idea of doing an MA in Writing and Literature, as Coursework. (as opposed to Research).
I have taken a huge step, and have made an appointment to speak to a past lecturer of mine, in itself a scary thing for me, and have spilled my guts to him in and in turn received some very positive feedback. I was in one of my very fired-up, enthusiastic and full-of-hope manias. I have now sent an email to a person responsible for this course, to ask for information. I am making steps toward committing myself to this path. Further study. Brainy Briar. It used to be my nickname. I was initially really excited. Could I really be fulfilling a long-held dream of mine to immerse further in academic study, and see it through to it's end? could I be a published author? lecturer? speaker? It seemed too good to be true, just to me, to hear that the possibilities were real and achievable.
Today, however, I am full of trepidation. I am full of self-doubt. I am seriously wondering who am I trying to kid? What makes me think I can do this?
The Lecturer said he believed I could. I really am trying to believe I can. I just doubt I can.
I am not satisfied with the idea of "just a degree", but I also wonder if I am as good as I dream about being.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Hello Hallah
Right then,
So I signed up for one of those deals where you get 2 cheap meals, and wine, side dishes, starters etc and then I wondered, will this place will be OK?
It was at Hallah Korean restaurant, in Victoria st, opposite Vic Market.
A quick check of the website before I parted with my credit-card details re-assured me it would be OK. I wanted to take our daughter and her boyfriend out for tea cheaply, so that her father wouldn't complain about how much money he spent on them, and thought this was a good option- better than simply going to a cheap restaurant with dubious fare.
We had been to the Footy at Etihad, and so it was an extension to the fun day we had planned for ourselves. We caught up with our daughter at her new place of residence; a Victorian terrace in North Melbourne, a gorgeous dingy, labyrinthine time capsule. It is unheated, unloved, and very much a purpose-built party haven for students these days. I love it. But I would love it more if someone would please take a squirty bottle of bleach to the bathroom.
Our daughter looks well settled already, and the inconveniently placed bathroom and general disarray in the common living areas I'm sure will be nothing to cope with compared to the proximity to the market,city, the lack of security gates and the ugliness of the shared courtyard she had in her newly built unit prior to this.
We only had a few minute's drive to Hallah from her place, another plus, and another reason to be glad to have chosen to eat there.
I should have booked, but didn't. Tried my luck, and thankfully they were happy to accommodate, but did mention to us on our way out that it would be good to book next time.
I had not eaten a real Korean meal before so it was an experiment, but being very intrigued and adventurous when it comes to new things, I was looking forward to it. I knew I loved miso, chilli, sesame, garlic, all commonly used ingredients in Korean food, so I was quite confident I would like it.
We ordered BBQ meals for 2 and the obligatory 2 "Famous Chicken Dinners" from the voucher. This included 2 starters, so we ordered dumplings and noodles, and both these dishes were delicious. The BBQ meat came in neat slices, raw, and was cooked in the table set BBQ grill in front of us. We had pork belly and steak, which was delicious on both counts. The steak especially was really good quality, marbly, tasty and juicy.
The side dishes, pickled vegetables, salad (coleslaw), the dipping sauces, of miso, sesame, kimchi, were fresh, with sharp but 'friendly' flavours. Korean food could just as easily become as much of a "comfort food" cuisine as much as I find Chinese and Japanese food to be, I think.
The starter dishes were beautiful and light and flavoursome; we all dug into the beautiful glassy noodles, (but almost impossible to serve, so elastic were they), with gusto, once we realised how wonderful they were. They had an almost vegemitey, soft, savoury flavour, were enhanced by grated sweet potato, spring onions and what I thought to be enoki mushrooms in them, which were meaty and juicy. I could have happily sat with a bowl of those noodles- and what a perfect thing to have for lunch they would be.
The chicken was really the highlight of the meal, although the beautiful BBQ meat was not simply incidental at all- it was just out-shone by the gorgeous crispy battered portions of chicken, 1/2 of which glistened under a mild chilli sauce (the marinated version), redolent of kimchi flavours, and half of which drowned in a garlic sauce. (Took us a while to work out what we were ordering, ie the combination of chicken flavours, the serves etc. We substituted the wine for soft drinks, as we were all underslept/partied out, and it was Sunday night.)
Best bloody bottled Lemon Lime Bitters I ever drank.
We were enjoying ourselves so much, we forgot to feel guilty for ordering so much food, but actually ate every bit of it, (maybe didn't do all the condiments justice.)
The best part of the evening for me was when my husband, (after being a bit of a pill during the ordering, nearly ruining the evening for us all), snatched a piece of kimchi to taste before the meat was cooked. I straight away knew what his reaction would be and giggled almost uncontrollably- and sure enough he was shocked and awed by it's sharp flavour. Hilarious. The other best bit was hearing my daughter oohing and ahhing and Mmming as she ate- I love that she has a palate nowadays; she was a hell of a difficult kid to feed as a child.
I gave her the other 2 meal voucher I bought, because I knew after this response to Korean food, she and her guy would value it, and hopefully have another great meal together sometime. I thought the meal would have been better value if the wine was substituted for something else in the food department, otherwise it was quite good for what we spent, which would have been, all up, about $80-$90 I think. Not bad for 4 people.
And delicious.
The decore in Hallah is really nice, probably close to something of the traditions of Korean restaurants, although I can't compare it to anywhere else. Pale bamboo/wood fittings, wall prints in fan-shapes, wooden booths, clean, and cosy, not too brightly lit.The Korean music piped out a little too loudly at first, but actually made for a better ambience I think. Meals using the table built BBQs are optional, and you go upstairs to dine if you want to order from this selection (it does get a little smoky). Downstairs is straight menu food. Lots of people in the place appeared to be Korean, and there was a family in the downstairs part, enjoying their glass noodles, I observed as we left, cutting them on the lip of the serving dish with a spoon. Will remember this next time.
The service was friendly and attentive, if the language difficulties made it a little tricky to order- but I always relish the challenge of this- to me it makes a more authentic experience. I'm a little weird like that. Our waitress coped very well with our confusing requests, and kept her sense of humour when my husband lost his. (With me).The kimchi incident was justice : )
Go to Hallah- try it, you'll love it.
So I signed up for one of those deals where you get 2 cheap meals, and wine, side dishes, starters etc and then I wondered, will this place will be OK?
It was at Hallah Korean restaurant, in Victoria st, opposite Vic Market.
A quick check of the website before I parted with my credit-card details re-assured me it would be OK. I wanted to take our daughter and her boyfriend out for tea cheaply, so that her father wouldn't complain about how much money he spent on them, and thought this was a good option- better than simply going to a cheap restaurant with dubious fare.
We had been to the Footy at Etihad, and so it was an extension to the fun day we had planned for ourselves. We caught up with our daughter at her new place of residence; a Victorian terrace in North Melbourne, a gorgeous dingy, labyrinthine time capsule. It is unheated, unloved, and very much a purpose-built party haven for students these days. I love it. But I would love it more if someone would please take a squirty bottle of bleach to the bathroom.
Our daughter looks well settled already, and the inconveniently placed bathroom and general disarray in the common living areas I'm sure will be nothing to cope with compared to the proximity to the market,city, the lack of security gates and the ugliness of the shared courtyard she had in her newly built unit prior to this.
We only had a few minute's drive to Hallah from her place, another plus, and another reason to be glad to have chosen to eat there.
I should have booked, but didn't. Tried my luck, and thankfully they were happy to accommodate, but did mention to us on our way out that it would be good to book next time.
I had not eaten a real Korean meal before so it was an experiment, but being very intrigued and adventurous when it comes to new things, I was looking forward to it. I knew I loved miso, chilli, sesame, garlic, all commonly used ingredients in Korean food, so I was quite confident I would like it.
We ordered BBQ meals for 2 and the obligatory 2 "Famous Chicken Dinners" from the voucher. This included 2 starters, so we ordered dumplings and noodles, and both these dishes were delicious. The BBQ meat came in neat slices, raw, and was cooked in the table set BBQ grill in front of us. We had pork belly and steak, which was delicious on both counts. The steak especially was really good quality, marbly, tasty and juicy.
The side dishes, pickled vegetables, salad (coleslaw), the dipping sauces, of miso, sesame, kimchi, were fresh, with sharp but 'friendly' flavours. Korean food could just as easily become as much of a "comfort food" cuisine as much as I find Chinese and Japanese food to be, I think.
The starter dishes were beautiful and light and flavoursome; we all dug into the beautiful glassy noodles, (but almost impossible to serve, so elastic were they), with gusto, once we realised how wonderful they were. They had an almost vegemitey, soft, savoury flavour, were enhanced by grated sweet potato, spring onions and what I thought to be enoki mushrooms in them, which were meaty and juicy. I could have happily sat with a bowl of those noodles- and what a perfect thing to have for lunch they would be.
The chicken was really the highlight of the meal, although the beautiful BBQ meat was not simply incidental at all- it was just out-shone by the gorgeous crispy battered portions of chicken, 1/2 of which glistened under a mild chilli sauce (the marinated version), redolent of kimchi flavours, and half of which drowned in a garlic sauce. (Took us a while to work out what we were ordering, ie the combination of chicken flavours, the serves etc. We substituted the wine for soft drinks, as we were all underslept/partied out, and it was Sunday night.)
Best bloody bottled Lemon Lime Bitters I ever drank.
We were enjoying ourselves so much, we forgot to feel guilty for ordering so much food, but actually ate every bit of it, (maybe didn't do all the condiments justice.)
The best part of the evening for me was when my husband, (after being a bit of a pill during the ordering, nearly ruining the evening for us all), snatched a piece of kimchi to taste before the meat was cooked. I straight away knew what his reaction would be and giggled almost uncontrollably- and sure enough he was shocked and awed by it's sharp flavour. Hilarious. The other best bit was hearing my daughter oohing and ahhing and Mmming as she ate- I love that she has a palate nowadays; she was a hell of a difficult kid to feed as a child.
I gave her the other 2 meal voucher I bought, because I knew after this response to Korean food, she and her guy would value it, and hopefully have another great meal together sometime. I thought the meal would have been better value if the wine was substituted for something else in the food department, otherwise it was quite good for what we spent, which would have been, all up, about $80-$90 I think. Not bad for 4 people.
And delicious.
The decore in Hallah is really nice, probably close to something of the traditions of Korean restaurants, although I can't compare it to anywhere else. Pale bamboo/wood fittings, wall prints in fan-shapes, wooden booths, clean, and cosy, not too brightly lit.The Korean music piped out a little too loudly at first, but actually made for a better ambience I think. Meals using the table built BBQs are optional, and you go upstairs to dine if you want to order from this selection (it does get a little smoky). Downstairs is straight menu food. Lots of people in the place appeared to be Korean, and there was a family in the downstairs part, enjoying their glass noodles, I observed as we left, cutting them on the lip of the serving dish with a spoon. Will remember this next time.
The service was friendly and attentive, if the language difficulties made it a little tricky to order- but I always relish the challenge of this- to me it makes a more authentic experience. I'm a little weird like that. Our waitress coped very well with our confusing requests, and kept her sense of humour when my husband lost his. (With me).The kimchi incident was justice : )
Go to Hallah- try it, you'll love it.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Food...#2
2. Lately I seem to be spending inordinate amounts of time in my small and grimy kitchen labouring over the stove. But it's a good thing- and I enjoy it- especially that sort of cooking that allows me to be creative, experimental - it gives me a source of recreational pleasure. It is cathartic when things go right, and very frustrating when they don't. Tonight I am riding on a culinary wave of pleasure- although not everything went to plan I still managed to make a beautiful three course meal.
We started with chicken and spinach soup, (from a recipe my Mother gave me, which is basically chicken thighs, garlic, coriander and spinach, and is really delicious), then had the braised veal shanks on cous-cous, which were beautifully fragrant with lemon-rind, garlic and parsley, (we ate one between us), and finished with pears poached in red wine and custard. Tea and cherry-bite pods to finish.
While I was cooking the veal, I also threw together a bolognese sauce, for easy meals through the week.
The veal was an absolute triumph- unctious, melting in the mouth.
But the red wine poaching liquid was nothing short of a coup. I strained and reduced the cinnamon and vanilla flavoured ruby liquid once I had removed the pears. It turned syrupy (once I added a bit more sugar) and I felt as though I had become an alchemist discovering that I had made gold. It was sublime. But way too powerful to use more than a few dribbles on the dessert. So now I know why chefs only smear the smallest amounts of such essences of pungency: for effect, and for balance.
The flavours nearly knocked me out, and yes I had served myself way too much, but I know I will wake up tomorrow wondering when I can justify eating it again, and probably stress all day wondering if my chef son will get to taste it.
(This is so ironic- I am watching Julie and Julia and Julie and her husband have just had the big fight scene, after her grand obsession has caused their relationship to be put under tonnes of pressure). I am fortunate to have married a man almost like Julia's husband and therefore an appreciative supporter of me when I get a cooking mojo on. I am also unfortunate enough to have more of a disposition like the "Julie" of the movie, and am more than a wee bit self-involved at times...
Hey it's all good, we ate really well tonight, and it's good for our home environment...
I am feeling rather chilled and fulfilled right now
Thanks God for food...and for grand obsessions.
Ps I am going to use the other poached pears and make a proper pear tart tomorrow. To serve with a blob of cream. Can't wait.
We started with chicken and spinach soup, (from a recipe my Mother gave me, which is basically chicken thighs, garlic, coriander and spinach, and is really delicious), then had the braised veal shanks on cous-cous, which were beautifully fragrant with lemon-rind, garlic and parsley, (we ate one between us), and finished with pears poached in red wine and custard. Tea and cherry-bite pods to finish.
While I was cooking the veal, I also threw together a bolognese sauce, for easy meals through the week.
The veal was an absolute triumph- unctious, melting in the mouth.
But the red wine poaching liquid was nothing short of a coup. I strained and reduced the cinnamon and vanilla flavoured ruby liquid once I had removed the pears. It turned syrupy (once I added a bit more sugar) and I felt as though I had become an alchemist discovering that I had made gold. It was sublime. But way too powerful to use more than a few dribbles on the dessert. So now I know why chefs only smear the smallest amounts of such essences of pungency: for effect, and for balance.
The flavours nearly knocked me out, and yes I had served myself way too much, but I know I will wake up tomorrow wondering when I can justify eating it again, and probably stress all day wondering if my chef son will get to taste it.
(This is so ironic- I am watching Julie and Julia and Julie and her husband have just had the big fight scene, after her grand obsession has caused their relationship to be put under tonnes of pressure). I am fortunate to have married a man almost like Julia's husband and therefore an appreciative supporter of me when I get a cooking mojo on. I am also unfortunate enough to have more of a disposition like the "Julie" of the movie, and am more than a wee bit self-involved at times...
Hey it's all good, we ate really well tonight, and it's good for our home environment...
I am feeling rather chilled and fulfilled right now
Thanks God for food...and for grand obsessions.
Ps I am going to use the other poached pears and make a proper pear tart tomorrow. To serve with a blob of cream. Can't wait.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Food
Ok, so what does this foody write and talk about when she has left it several months and can hardly remember what has gone on worth writing about?
...Let's see...
1. Back in April I went with my family to a little roadside cafe, to celebrate my birthday, called the Elkhorn roadhouse - it was a lovely little rural eatery, on the Bellarine Peninsular with a small but tasty menu. The service was great, and the food well executed. I had the ham-steak and braised cabbage sandwich- it was not too salty at all- but juicy and sweet, made with the beautiful Istra Ham. The local wine from the nearby Leura Park Estate was a very crisp young bubbly, which suited our occasion well. Johnny and Sam both had really generous and well dressed hamburgers, and the girls, pumpkin and prosciutto pizzas. We also shared really good herbed potato chunks, and a tasting plate. The delicious pate was a generous and moreish serve. We didn't even try to resist dessert, and my Tipsy Pudding was a delicious, sweet, whiskey soaked treat. Sam's creamed sponge was probably as good as my mother-in-law's, and that's saying something. We left there stuffed full but quite happy- and thanks go to Sam's old boss for giving us the heads-up on this place.
Elkhorn Roadhouse make their own range of preserves as well as run the well patronised cafe, and these look very tempting-- Berry, peach jams- I didn't get any but will be back for some I'm sure.
The food at Elkhorn warms the cockles and has that cosy home-made quality, but also has that gourmet touch- it is made with the best quality local produce, and is done well.
I was really happy to find an out of town place to have a little family birthday. I didn't want anything flashy that trumpetted it's own merits- so Elkhorn was just the ticket. It's decor reminds you of a roadside cafe, and nothing more ostentatious than that. I needed to fulfill that desire to go somewhere away from the "Burbs" and somewhere as a family we could be that would treated like valued guests.
And so we were~!
...Let's see...
1. Back in April I went with my family to a little roadside cafe, to celebrate my birthday, called the Elkhorn roadhouse - it was a lovely little rural eatery, on the Bellarine Peninsular with a small but tasty menu. The service was great, and the food well executed. I had the ham-steak and braised cabbage sandwich- it was not too salty at all- but juicy and sweet, made with the beautiful Istra Ham. The local wine from the nearby Leura Park Estate was a very crisp young bubbly, which suited our occasion well. Johnny and Sam both had really generous and well dressed hamburgers, and the girls, pumpkin and prosciutto pizzas. We also shared really good herbed potato chunks, and a tasting plate. The delicious pate was a generous and moreish serve. We didn't even try to resist dessert, and my Tipsy Pudding was a delicious, sweet, whiskey soaked treat. Sam's creamed sponge was probably as good as my mother-in-law's, and that's saying something. We left there stuffed full but quite happy- and thanks go to Sam's old boss for giving us the heads-up on this place.
Elkhorn Roadhouse make their own range of preserves as well as run the well patronised cafe, and these look very tempting-- Berry, peach jams- I didn't get any but will be back for some I'm sure.
The food at Elkhorn warms the cockles and has that cosy home-made quality, but also has that gourmet touch- it is made with the best quality local produce, and is done well.
I was really happy to find an out of town place to have a little family birthday. I didn't want anything flashy that trumpetted it's own merits- so Elkhorn was just the ticket. It's decor reminds you of a roadside cafe, and nothing more ostentatious than that. I needed to fulfill that desire to go somewhere away from the "Burbs" and somewhere as a family we could be that would treated like valued guests.
And so we were~!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Briar's Golden Vegetable Lasagne
Sounds yummy much? Well even though I invented it myself- I'm here to tell you it is really good : )
I thought I would just publish this and get it all out there since my son, who's a chef, is going to share it with his boss. For goodness sakes, credit where credit's due : )
It IS delicious, and I'll be eating it for a couple for days. Lucky me.
This dish has a lot of stages, and can take some time to prepare, especially if you have a normal small oven like mine- but I find if I am stuck at home I can cook this over the course of the day, and achieve many other things as well. At the end of the day is the reward of all the lovely smells in the house and the creamy golden lasagne. It is not a dish to be rushed, but if you have the vegetables and bechamel pre-prepared, it just takes a few minutes to assemble, then 30 mins baking.
Ingredients
Sweet potato, 1 large or 2 medium
2 medium eggplants
2 med red onions
3-4 large field mushrooms
4 -6 home-grown or vine tomatoes
2 small-med zucchini
Fresh thyme, a good bunch
3 lrge garlic cloves (if using small, cook less time in oven)
Olive oil
Macadamia oil (or other light oil)
balsamic vinegar
tomato paste
red wine
salt, pepper (Freshly cracked black, and white milled)
sugar
lasagne sheets- (I prefer fresh, only because you can use different shaped dishes then- but use dried if you want, only make sure your filling is quite moist.)
grated mozzarella
shaved parmesan
Bechamel sauce
milk (I use skim)
plain flour
butter (please use real butter!)
tasty cheese (I use a 25% less fat variety)
nutmeg
s & p
Method
Prepare vegetables- cut eggplant, sweet potato in rounds of approx 1 cm thickness. Brush the light oil on the sweet potato and the olive oil on the eggplant, place on trays lined with baking paper.
Bake in a moderate oven for about 15 mins. Test with a skewer, it needs to be tender, but not overcooked.
Slice red onions into rounds and sauté in olive oil, adding a good splash of balsamic and sprinkle of salt once they have begun to soften. Continue to cook slowly, for up to 20 mins, to caramelise.
Slice zucchini, (1 cm thick), peel mushrooms and cut into roughly 2 cm by cm chunks, oil and bake on baking trays in a slower oven for about 30 mins. Use a skewer to test for doneness, don't allow to become brown or tough.
Slice each tomato into 3-4 rounds, depending on size, de-core, place on trays and sprinkle with a good amount of the stripped thyme. Splash a little balsamic over, and salt. Place slit garlic cloves around the tomato pieces. Bake in a slow oven for a good 45 mins.
As the vegetables come out of the oven, keep the sweet potato and eggplant separate. Put the other vegetables in a bowl, cutting the tomatoes up smaller, peeling and chopping finely the garlic, add the onions, cut zucchini smaller if you need to. You want 1 cm sized chunks, with the exception of the slightly larger mushroom pieces.
Whilst the vegetables are cooking, you can make your bechamel, if you haven't made this before there are easy recipes everywhere. Make at least 3 cups worth.
Grate or add ¼ tspn nutmeg (don't go overboard on this!)
season well with salt and white pepper
add 1 cup of grated tasty cheese. It must taste cheesy.
In a small bowl, place a good tablespoon or two of tomato paste, a slurp of red wine, and some (a 1/2tsp at a time) sugar and salt to taste. Mix to dissolve sugar, and taste this mixture. It must be sweet enough to complement the other ingredients. As Nigella says, “trust your tastebuds!”! You need this mixture to moisten the vegetables as you assemble.
Now begin layering, firstly with a little of the mushroom /tomato mixture, 2-3 tablespoons of wine mixture then lay the pasta.
Now place the sweet potato rounds neatly over the pasta and cover with the eggplant rounds. Sprinkle mozzarella around, filling gaps and a thin covering on top. Now another layer of pasta.
Next add the remainder of the mixed vegetables, sprinkling some of the red wine mixture, and plenty of cracked black pepper. Distribute the vegetables out evenly making sure that there are chunks of mushroom, onion, tomato, zucchini in all quadrants, and plenty of moisture- try to fill gaps. Sprinkle more fresh thyme. Add a layer of pasta.
Now the topping, which is a good covering of about 2 cms of the Bechamel sauce. Finish with a good handful of mozzarella and parmesan, spread evenly across to the edges.
Bake for 30 mins in a low-moderate oven, till bubbling and light brown about the edges and golden on top.
Let sit for 20 mins at least before serving.
Serve with a green salad
I thought I would just publish this and get it all out there since my son, who's a chef, is going to share it with his boss. For goodness sakes, credit where credit's due : )
It IS delicious, and I'll be eating it for a couple for days. Lucky me.
This dish has a lot of stages, and can take some time to prepare, especially if you have a normal small oven like mine- but I find if I am stuck at home I can cook this over the course of the day, and achieve many other things as well. At the end of the day is the reward of all the lovely smells in the house and the creamy golden lasagne. It is not a dish to be rushed, but if you have the vegetables and bechamel pre-prepared, it just takes a few minutes to assemble, then 30 mins baking.
Ingredients
Sweet potato, 1 large or 2 medium
2 medium eggplants
2 med red onions
3-4 large field mushrooms
4 -6 home-grown or vine tomatoes
2 small-med zucchini
Fresh thyme, a good bunch
3 lrge garlic cloves (if using small, cook less time in oven)
Olive oil
Macadamia oil (or other light oil)
balsamic vinegar
tomato paste
red wine
salt, pepper (Freshly cracked black, and white milled)
sugar
lasagne sheets- (I prefer fresh, only because you can use different shaped dishes then- but use dried if you want, only make sure your filling is quite moist.)
grated mozzarella
shaved parmesan
Bechamel sauce
milk (I use skim)
plain flour
butter (please use real butter!)
tasty cheese (I use a 25% less fat variety)
nutmeg
s & p
Method
Prepare vegetables- cut eggplant, sweet potato in rounds of approx 1 cm thickness. Brush the light oil on the sweet potato and the olive oil on the eggplant, place on trays lined with baking paper.
Bake in a moderate oven for about 15 mins. Test with a skewer, it needs to be tender, but not overcooked.
Slice red onions into rounds and sauté in olive oil, adding a good splash of balsamic and sprinkle of salt once they have begun to soften. Continue to cook slowly, for up to 20 mins, to caramelise.
Slice zucchini, (1 cm thick), peel mushrooms and cut into roughly 2 cm by cm chunks, oil and bake on baking trays in a slower oven for about 30 mins. Use a skewer to test for doneness, don't allow to become brown or tough.
Slice each tomato into 3-4 rounds, depending on size, de-core, place on trays and sprinkle with a good amount of the stripped thyme. Splash a little balsamic over, and salt. Place slit garlic cloves around the tomato pieces. Bake in a slow oven for a good 45 mins.
As the vegetables come out of the oven, keep the sweet potato and eggplant separate. Put the other vegetables in a bowl, cutting the tomatoes up smaller, peeling and chopping finely the garlic, add the onions, cut zucchini smaller if you need to. You want 1 cm sized chunks, with the exception of the slightly larger mushroom pieces.
Whilst the vegetables are cooking, you can make your bechamel, if you haven't made this before there are easy recipes everywhere. Make at least 3 cups worth.
Grate or add ¼ tspn nutmeg (don't go overboard on this!)
season well with salt and white pepper
add 1 cup of grated tasty cheese. It must taste cheesy.
In a small bowl, place a good tablespoon or two of tomato paste, a slurp of red wine, and some (a 1/2tsp at a time) sugar and salt to taste. Mix to dissolve sugar, and taste this mixture. It must be sweet enough to complement the other ingredients. As Nigella says, “trust your tastebuds!”! You need this mixture to moisten the vegetables as you assemble.
Now begin layering, firstly with a little of the mushroom /tomato mixture, 2-3 tablespoons of wine mixture then lay the pasta.
Now place the sweet potato rounds neatly over the pasta and cover with the eggplant rounds. Sprinkle mozzarella around, filling gaps and a thin covering on top. Now another layer of pasta.
Next add the remainder of the mixed vegetables, sprinkling some of the red wine mixture, and plenty of cracked black pepper. Distribute the vegetables out evenly making sure that there are chunks of mushroom, onion, tomato, zucchini in all quadrants, and plenty of moisture- try to fill gaps. Sprinkle more fresh thyme. Add a layer of pasta.
Now the topping, which is a good covering of about 2 cms of the Bechamel sauce. Finish with a good handful of mozzarella and parmesan, spread evenly across to the edges.
Bake for 30 mins in a low-moderate oven, till bubbling and light brown about the edges and golden on top.
Let sit for 20 mins at least before serving.
Serve with a green salad
Saturday, March 12, 2011
I am a Pear therefore I am a Woman who can't wear certain things?
Ben Pobjie's Wonderful World Of Objects: One for the Ladies
I hope the author of this doesn't mind- but I had to share- it got me laughing so hard.
And do we do this name calling to men I wonder?
I know my mother (God Bless her), being from different generation, also living in an environment where bodies are SO very very important, as they are on show always, (ie the Gold Coast) is always going on about her son's and grandson's physiques- their broad shoulders, narrow hips etc. No-one gets to own their own body out in the public eye it would seem.
I like to call some men "pregnant" because of their beer bellies, and am impressed by an athlete's firm muscles etc, as I am confused and repelled by the over -done body-builder's. Some guys are built like a brick dunny, others are weeds.
I am immensely attracted to a man with a flat stomach, nicely developed arms and legs and body hair in certain places. And I'm sure I'm not alone in this.
Can I call him a Michaelangelo? Why not?
I honestly still do believe that it is mostly women who want to perpetuate the names of body shapes, and that this links in with many different attitudes and ideas- some due to the Dr Cabot diets for different body shapes and hormonal conditions, some of it because of terrible fashionista reality TV shows and magazines and some of it because women want to be able to identify with someone or thing, to help them love their own particular shape more.
How do I KNOW this? because I am a Pear, and Pears need reassurance. A big botty is a lovely one, Mum always told me, and I do believe it now.
But I didn't when I was young, and they only made Levi's jeans for girls with no hips. Now they make them for Pears, and I'm so glad.
Ok Ok, OK,
I hear that I am again demonstrating behaviour that the feminists chant: that I have been socialised by male stereotyping, male desires for females to 'be' something, female desires to conform to these desires etc etc.
Then show me how, make me and let me be a woman in a vacuum, who doesn't need to see and like what she sees in the mirror and feels good in her own bones.
Meanwhile call me anything you want, or call me nothing at all, but I know who/what I am and ultimately, that is a "woman".
I hope the author of this doesn't mind- but I had to share- it got me laughing so hard.
And do we do this name calling to men I wonder?
I know my mother (God Bless her), being from different generation, also living in an environment where bodies are SO very very important, as they are on show always, (ie the Gold Coast) is always going on about her son's and grandson's physiques- their broad shoulders, narrow hips etc. No-one gets to own their own body out in the public eye it would seem.
I like to call some men "pregnant" because of their beer bellies, and am impressed by an athlete's firm muscles etc, as I am confused and repelled by the over -done body-builder's. Some guys are built like a brick dunny, others are weeds.
I am immensely attracted to a man with a flat stomach, nicely developed arms and legs and body hair in certain places. And I'm sure I'm not alone in this.
Can I call him a Michaelangelo? Why not?
I honestly still do believe that it is mostly women who want to perpetuate the names of body shapes, and that this links in with many different attitudes and ideas- some due to the Dr Cabot diets for different body shapes and hormonal conditions, some of it because of terrible fashionista reality TV shows and magazines and some of it because women want to be able to identify with someone or thing, to help them love their own particular shape more.
How do I KNOW this? because I am a Pear, and Pears need reassurance. A big botty is a lovely one, Mum always told me, and I do believe it now.
But I didn't when I was young, and they only made Levi's jeans for girls with no hips. Now they make them for Pears, and I'm so glad.
Ok Ok, OK,
I hear that I am again demonstrating behaviour that the feminists chant: that I have been socialised by male stereotyping, male desires for females to 'be' something, female desires to conform to these desires etc etc.
Then show me how, make me and let me be a woman in a vacuum, who doesn't need to see and like what she sees in the mirror and feels good in her own bones.
Meanwhile call me anything you want, or call me nothing at all, but I know who/what I am and ultimately, that is a "woman".
Monday, February 28, 2011
I Bottle, therefore I am.
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!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
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
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.
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.
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