Jeanie in Paradise

Seven years ago today...

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 22:51:00 +0000

...a ~~boy~~ ~~young~~ man sent an e-kiss to a ~~girl~~ ~~lady~~ woman who had caught his attention with her weaving of words and she e-kissed back in response to his stories of smiling and supermarket trolleys...

Being, perhaps for the first time in that seven years upon the date of our anniversary in a position where we could do the whole celebrate - both in terms of child combinations and manana - and in need of an excuse to test said children upon the frontier of babysitting - we proceeded to try and organise ourselves in the general direction of a night out...

(Well, one child - 'Salina would be completely fine now for us to leave her to her devices - those devices being of the i- variety - and in truth, she may well be able to wrangle Paris, but we wanted to not put that responsibility on her shoulders and come home to any forms of sister-cide).

We had sounded out Ms B - a trainee from Paris's school/daycare - on the concept of undertaking such a task, and we were so well organised that by 3pm this afternoon, it was booked.

Unfortunately, our first choice for a foodie date, the newly opened Thai with good reviews, was also completely booked, so we had a babysitter but not a venue.

Still, with the sort of determination that creates a relationship out of a 400km each-way commute, we forged on. We prepared Paris and 'Salina - Paris sang Ms B's praises ("she is quite nice") and Salina was extra cool as only can be pulled off when you are that age and that stage of evolution.

So - after feeding the girls and getting glammed up, Ms B arrived and we handed over total control to her - we hit the road, the ~~night~~ next 2 hours in front of us and nary a care.

Before driving too far, our minds and taste buds were salivating at the concept of exotic tastes and gorgeous delights, and our sensibilities were busy fist-pumping the no washing up concept.

After driving along the strip a little further, we agreed to settle on not having to travel too far and getting food.

And, upon reaching that resolve, we rounded a corner and discovered the answer to that particular moment's prayers - the Tavern.

We parked as two lovebirds with seven years under out belts do - as close as possible to the entrance and far enough away from other cars as to not get uncalled for damage.

As I walked towards the entrance, I had one of those momentous decisions to make.

You know the one, where you come to the kerb and think "hmmm, should I go the extra short step or just clear it in one?"

At that point, the house orchestra really should have struck up some ominous music or the a bit of a trill on the trumpet, because what came next was really a "wah wah WAAAAH" moment.

Yep - I chose wrong, and therefore V suddenly felt a tug and the few patrons braving the coffee-deck got to witness the not so gradual demise of Jeanie's dignity due to an extended step and a twisty foot.

I think I heard something as I fell - I am pretty sure that my foot swore, and I may have emitted a gasp.

After the major operation of moving my carcass to the edge of the driveway, we sat in the gutter and discussed our options. It wasn't so painful that I needed an ambulance right then and there. We were out, the kids were safe, we were hungry and there was an eating establishment not too far from where we sat. As I ~~was swept up by V~~ ~~arose~~ clampbered to my pins, I determined that I could walk on it without screaming in agony, so we went on with determination.

There were enough tables that I could nab an extra chair just for my foot, so I gently advised V of my need for this setup as soon as possible and took stock of the situation.

For the first 10 minutes I couldn't actually see properly - everything was sort of black and white and rather pixellated, which made checking out the blackboards specials an interesting task.

V found a menu that I could actually hold and adjust for the vision issues, and I saw that I would need to move my tastespace from "exotic and dangerous" to "rich and comforting" - luckily it moved with an ease I have to give it credit for.

V went up to order and brought me back a red wine (a medicinal requirement) and I crash-tackled a busboy (busgirl? busperson?) to ask for a bag of ice.

We got a chance to survey our surrounds. The crowd was made up of family parties, groups of old friends and several smatterings of first or nearly first dates. There was a choice of the kitchen/servery, trotting on tele, Keno, people or fish tank views - we actually found a table that offered all of that, so pretty chuffed.

The breads came out - and they were truly yum.

It is at this point where I apologise profusely for my woeful camera skills - you can't see how light and warm and fluffy the bread was, or how tender yet chewy the crust. The orange disc was herb butter, the yellow/green garlic - and both were delicious (although if I had to chose one, the garlic was the one - luckily V agreed and we didn't have to contemplate this)

For my main, I chose Coq au Vin, and went the veges rather than the chips and salad option (the sign of a truly upmarket restaurant, I believe, is they inherently KNOW what sides go with your dish and impose their choice on you)

That gravy there? R-I-C-H and totally yummy. The mushrooms were awesome, the chicken cooked just right, the corn so juicy - the only very slight downside was that the veges could have had a little less time on them, but in the grand scheme of things, exactly what this little duck required.

V went the Rump Sophia - Steak and Prawns in a creamy mediterranean sauce - they had cooked the steak to his specifications beautifully (the sign of a truly smart tavern - bugger what the chef thinks, listen to the patron) and the portions were extremely generous.

One of the upsides of tavern vs fine dining, is you can do this sort of malarkey and no-one raises an eyebrow - so you CAN slather your pumpkin and gravy over your last bits of bread and explode your buds with the tasty goodness.

I was going to wax lyrical and do a full review of the food, but the appendage at the end of my leg just gave me a hurry up and blew all adjectives regarding taste out of the water. Let me just distill it into HUGE RICH and YUMMY.

We would have given you shots of the desserts, but we were far too full to even think about the Cheesecakes or Mars Bar Cake or Puddings - we might think about them another night.

By then, our two hours were up and it was time to take the pumpkin home and find out how successful the babysitting experiment was.

And really, it depends on your measures.

In terms of Ms B being nice to Paris, it was a success.

In terms of 'Salina and Ms B reading ALL of the library books several times to Paris in 'Salina's bed as she missed Mummy and Daddy and didn't want to go to sleep, well, that would be a tick also.

In terms of the house being quiet and Paris being abed - it was a fail.

Still, we are going to try it again some time soon - perhaps practice will improve her ability to relax into the whole "compliant and go to sleep for other people child" that goes well with babysitting. Apparently.

Happy anniversary, honey - seven years ago, my life was blessed. :)

(and to top off the whole anniversary festivities, we are now contemplating a medical opinion on the foot - because I am pretty sure the signals that it is sending me are in the "you may have done damage" part of the inter-body dictionary)

Morning

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Wed, 05 Jun 2013 13:30:00 +0000

(This is a poem that I wrote in about 1995. I say 1995, but it could be anytime around then, as I was quite prolific at the time, and, as is a running motif in my life, I was excellent at keeping a system of indexing my work - ahem - to the point where I would have considered it aberrant behaviour on my behalf to be remiss in recording the date and status of mind, except - well, except that always has been the case in my life (hence the running motif reference) to the point where it isn't working at all and I have to rebuild a new system - and apparently, as I discovered this evening, such a schism in organisational prowess seems to have occurred about exactly when this poem was penned. Anyway... once upon a time.)

MORNING

Day breaks

And unrested, alone I wake.

I rise with slumber’s rage

Without the pillow of another spine,

My arms around a chest entwined:

Sleep leaves me best when I arise

With another -

and shower and wash

away the night’s devotion,

Massages me with body lotion;

Feeds me well, gives caffeine hits -

I am soon unclouded of morning mists.

Yet this day crests,

And alone am I, too.

And I say

“Poor me”.

“Poor you.”

Mum's Magic

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Wed, 22 May 2013 12:22:00 +0000

When I was a kid, my mother was magical. She kept her secret potions in her red make-up case. She also had a treasure-trove of vitamins, tonics, powders and pills (and had the skills to use them) in the tupperware container in the kitchen.

Did everyone's mother have a make-up case? They were hard and quite three-dimensional and were often placed beneath the Mum's feet in the car on trips, or regally towards the left of Mum's dressing-table. If you were a very, very good girl, you got to go into Mum's Room and gaze upon the wonders that were in her make-up case.

It was always "Mum's Room" in my experience. Occasionally, if he had somehow kindled a feeling of warmth and regard, you might refer to it as "Mum and Dad's Room" but you and he both knew it was a concession of love. There was, indeed, "Dad's Side of the Bed" and "Dad's Drawers" (upon which lived folded handkerchief's, a notebook, loose change, the other watch and mystery objects), "Dad's Toilet" was a luxury we all aspired to and "Dad's Chair" (a beauty that still exists in our living room, thirty-five years after its fortuitous entry into our lives through a one dollar raffle ticket from the Eidsvold Sport's Day), but there was a definite leaning toward the "Mum owns everything in the house because" philosophy in my childhood.

But I digress. (and Dad ~~did have~~ does have quite a land claim on some of my childhood memories)

Mum used Oil of Ulan. It was beautiful. It smelt so luxurious and the little dab we were allowed on our fingers were so smooth and rubbed in to such a soft dream of nothing on your skin. But you must never, never, never, never, never go in to Mum's room without being allowed to.

The living room used to be right next to Mum's Room. The house was an original design, the sort of warren that exists from the family home emerging from an outstation heritage. One where unexpected doors offered entry into rooms that geographically should not adjoin. I didn't know, during my childhood, that there were homes out there that didn't have this feature. Our home did, as did the majority of our neighbours. Cupboards that were secret passages to other rooms did exist. Laundry chutes were of the seventies child's secret dreams, and when they were discovered, always coveted.

The doorway between these two rooms, in my memory, were double doors with square panes of that gorgeous rough glass that worked so well behind paper with decent crayon action. It is possible that my siblings may have attempted such feats without the paper.

These doors were permanently open - however the doorway ensured privacy with a curtain of green beads - circles and rectangles and diamonds and spheres. We were NOT ALLOWED to tug on them or race through them but these ILLICIT ACTS were so tempting - especially when you had siblings who were fun to laugh with and make noise with and play with.

Mum's Dressing Table was heavenly. It had little drawers and boxes with treasures beyond imagination. If ever anything was needed in any part of the house, no matter how obscure, and the finder asked "Mu-um, do you know where the (insert obscure object here) is?" the answer would more often than not be "have you tried the dressing-table?" - and so often, by magic, this was indeed the hiding place of the object required.

The May Post

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Wed, 15 May 2013 21:02:00 +0000

I have not been very chatty on here of late, mainly because I am currently half-way through working in a 3 month gig that is big on involvement and short on what I can actually share.

Here are a few random snaps, however, that I have gathered...

Saturday night - or the journey that led to the recipe that led to late night philosophizing...

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 14:49:00 +0000

Good evening all. (tap. tap.) Is this thing on?

A funny thing happened on the way to the post - I would be lying if I said this has happened oft of late, because the inspiration space in my brain has not been activating much in a blogly direction of late.

It is a downside of regular employment, it seems. Still, they pay me for the use of quite a lot of my brain, so the worky sphere has sub-let a fair bit of the arty-farty blog warehouse (which includes the old poetry cupboard towards the back).

However - it seems an old grant application has been found beside the filing cabinet and so some pity funding has been thrown in that direction, requesting a prospectus for a post, and congratulations, your reading of my blather is one of the proposed outcomes of the project.

(Nah. Actually, that is pure bs. Its just that I am in front of a computer and actually engaging a part of the grey matter that apparently has a sick sense of humour involving charity, the arts, funding submissions, submission bodies, artists, bureaucrats, citizen rights, politics, the economy, multimedia, media rooms in McMansions AND theoretical studies in the sociological adaptive behaviours creating the interface between lexicological sculptors and the oozing clay of the minds of the masses... Que?)

How did it all start?

I think I need to go back to Pearl's post for the day. (Take a moment - enjoy the detour - "Local woman tells of teens has Nervous Walk Back to Office")

which led to a conversation with a blogging friend regarding the use of "Bless" with various organs and clothing options,

therefore I went to her cooking blog and commented on her "Not exactly a how to post"

- because I too have a love affair with garlic and an understanding of the reaction of the non-participant in romantic settings;

and I have a love affair with a dish I have always known as:

"Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic"

(totally coincidental - I first ate and fell in love with this dish at a friend Lisa's place. Lisa and I have another friend called Lisa who was there on the day, and I also have another Leesa in my life - and V and I had a discussion this evening on how all of our Lisas are pretty cool chicks - here endeth that aside)

Ingredients:

Chicken (d'uh) - the meaty stuff rather than boney and oily stuff (thighs are good but if mixed bits are better value at your local, don't let it hold you back, okay? You could do a whole chook, you could do drummies) - about the equivalent of a chook's worth (4-6 thighs, 8 drumsticks - whatever works)
40 (at least) cloves of garlic (and the really excellent bit of this recipe - you don't need to peel the suckers!!! Total win. Makes you want to reach for 60, but stick with the recipe - ish - first go around.)
1 bunch shallots (look, try other oniony varieties, too, because I have learned in life that one woman's shallot is another woman's spring onion, and so maybe you are right and I am wrong and I am not going to stand in your righteous path!)
Butter or oil (I am not judging you)
3-4 carrots - peeled (because I am in camp "peel your carrots" but you may have noticed, I am not here to fight your ingrained attitudes) and medium-ly sliced
A good handful of green beans
8 whole baby potatoes
Chicken stock (don't make excuses for "I only have cubes" - I know cubes, I grew up with cubes, I am just going to look away and we can pretend it didn't happen)
Fresh white crusty bread - any shape - if you must spread, go the butter on this one...
(In the original recipe, that Lisa got from some famous TV chef's cookbook - I always thought, for some reason, it was Jamie Oliver, but I asked my old mate google for the recipe for Rootie in response to her response to my comment on her post on garlic - keep up - it honestly kept trying to point me to a heap of wonderful recipes called "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" that weren't the "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" I knew from Lisa's recipe, and the closest thing that linked Jamie Oliver with any of the recipes for "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" was TV chefs/cooks and bloggers who had made all manner of varieties of "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" and who had also made or linked to Jamie Oliver's "Chicken in Milk" recipe - which I have also tried cooking and we weren't convinced - and anyway, as I was saying, I am pretty sure that the original recipe for "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" also called for Vermouth or Verjuice or some other ingredient starting with "Ver" that I have never had on hand - thus I have never used it, and as this is me blogging the experience I shan't include it in my ingredients list because I have never ingredied it in any attempt at replication). Anyhow.
Thyme.

Method:

Turn your oven on to 160 degrees C (that is a slow oven - about 315 F)
Heat the oil and/or butter in a heavy based big pan that you can put on the stove and in the oven. If you don't have that, use what you must - it means less washing up for me AND I have one, so that is what I do.
If you must season the chicken, season the chicken (I didn't put seasoning up there in the ingredients section - if you use it, it's automatic, if you don't, then you probably would really enjoy it, but the little voice inside your head that makes you shirk from the salt cellar will probably lessen your enjoyment of the taste sensation with sensationalist rants regarding health and longevity - your choice, free country) and then brown it, skin side down, until it is crispy (or you are sick of doing it)
Take the chicken out, put the garlic cloves (without peeling - gotta love that and celebrate at every possible point), carrots, beans, baby potatoes - swizzle them around, chuck the chicken back on board, just cover with stock and sprinkle in some thyme.
Bring to the boil, chuck on the lid (or assemble it in the other dish that you have because you don't have the versatility available in your cooking equipment - I highly recommend getting married to close that chink in your resources) and put it in the oven for a good long time - a couple of hours.

Serve with crusty white bread and good friends. The oozy garlic (squeezed out of the skin - enjoy every moment of that not peeling the suckers while raw) is blissful spread on the bread, soak it in the juice, even kids eat all the veges in the pot - make sure everyone that you want to kiss partakes with gusto.

Enjoy

Paradismal Displays and Diction Delight

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 13:37:00 +0000

It is so rare that I would write a post that was all images with few words - true. However, it is rare that I would post these days full stop.

Life, hey - it sometimes takes up way too much of your time.

The weather has not been conducive to frolic, and the enthusiasm that should accompany autumn seems to be hiding around some not yet met corner.

I am blessed, because I have a teenager who, when I look at her, I see someone who I probably would have liked hugely when I was her age,

and from a child to parent angle I am offering abject apologies to my own parents for some of my more melodaramatic explosions at that age

and profuse thanks that she has handled things with a great deal more grace and aplomb than I ever did.

It is early days, true, so allow me to wallow in the vainglorious hope that this will continue.

I am blessed, because I have a tall, shy, enthusiastic, mummy-loving girl who surprises with her imagination

and language exploration yet still can be unintelligible on occasion because she mixes up consonants and tries to say it all at once while hopping and spinning.

I am blessed, because my home is nurtured by someone who loves me and our family and who tills the soil

and encourages dreams and fiercely protects all of his girls from the world and themselves.

I am blessed, because I do have a wonderful support group of family and friends and memories of great people in my life.

I am blessed because there is currently enough work for me to earn money by my skills and labour with a great bunch of people.

There is a lot unsaid in this post in regard to the clouds (not mine but I get to brush amongst it), but I am extremely thankful for the light that filters through.

When I was a Girl

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 20:33:00 +0000

Reading a message board elsewhere, I realised how interested I was in how everyone grew up - what some people got to take as "normal" and what was deemed "exotic".

When I was a girl:

We had a party line phone - our number was 4S which meant that if there were three short rings, the call was for us - and if you wanted to make a call, you would pick up the phone and say "working?" before you rang - if it wasn't for anyone on our line, we had to call the operator and get connected.

Our school still had thunderboxes - septic toilets came to the school when I was about year 3, prior to that we had to walk to up near the oval, sit on a wooden seat above a pit and bucket, sprinkle sawdust on any business that was done and George would empty it every week - when a teacher went a bit mad one Arbour Day and they planted over 20 new trees, one of the science experiments was that the pre-fertilisation treatment for a few of the trees was courtesy of such - and those trees did grow a treat!

The toilet that we had at home was downstairs - it was known as "the library" as it was on the subscription list for the Readers Digest. There was a gas bottle kept outside of it with a patch of black paint on it - I gave myself nightmares for years after a poignant episode of "Whodunnit" where a pirate's patch was integral, as I imagined it to be a pirate. I had NFI what a pirate actually was.

We had meat with every meal - meat was cheap for us, as we lived on a cattle property (and corned beef was far more regular than ham). Vegetables were a little harder to come by. When Mum first moved up there, she was flat out finding potatoes or onions locally. While pumpkin were truly plentiful (Dad would always throw a few seeds into the ashes of any burned trees), other fresh commodities were scarce. Mum did try to make a vegetable patch, but kangaroos and rabbits fared far better than we did. I thought peas were either tinned or surprise. I thought mushrooms naturally were wrinkled.

Television was a choice of 2 channels (zero with bad weather) and I didn't see Sesame Street in colour until I was about 6 - I was shocked at how yellow Big Bird was. These days, with digital and the weather we are having, most nights I have a choice of 2 channels (as NITV is still picture NITV, sound SBS so not an option)

If you were blessed enough to be have been bestowed with a camera, generally you bought a 100 film (unless you were a bit fancy) and really conserved your pictures as even though you had heard rumours of 26 photos being achieved on a 24 roll, all too often they were busted as myths with doubled pictures or blurred results. Once you had finished a film, it was sent off (with a price tag of 24.95) to be returned a week or so hence full of surprises and disappointments.

It would take us a full day of driving to get to Brisbane - and visit one Grandmother. We used to play "White Horse" with the billboards and number plates we zoomed past -it was preferable to be on the drivers side during the first part of the trip, as cars whizzing by were your best bet - but passenger's side nearer to the city, as the billboards offered riches. When we saw the "Supa-Maid" ad on the side of a shop, we knew we would see Grandma in only a few minutes and that she would be down by her little blue fence waving once she saw us at the top of the street.

The other Grandma lived in a house that had an upstairs bathroom AND the old bathroom still in existence under the tankstand. It was always a gamble, chosing which one to use, as the frogs lived in the downstairs one (but the temperature regulation had been ironed out) but the upstairs one you had to put the hot tap on until it was scalding and then add cold a tiny turn of the tap at a time - because it would go to freezing if you went too far. She also had a matching set of fluffy yellow accoutrements for her toilet (in the new bathroom) that I thought was so soft!

So - what was it like when you were a girl (or boy)?

At the end of the day (Wordless Wednesday)

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 21:06:00 +0000

(Blogger was truly playing up last night - said it had posted this WITH its label and its link, but not so.

Have linked it at My Little Drummer Boys (the delightful Trish)

Because you just know what I am talking about

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Tue, 12 Feb 2013 12:53:00 +0000

A friend is having a turning point in her life... Actually, more than one.

I know what that is like. Some years it happens all the time.

Last year, I had several turning points regarding my enterprise quarter. It seems it continues, with drought (funnily enough - and we need plenty of funnily enoughs in this era - due to severe flooding) to yet another turn in the corner.

My current role has morphed, and I am currently dealing with things like templates and macros and reports and data integrity and pulling my hair out because had I been able to plan the project rather than pick up in the middle and make the pieces fit and - oh, are your eyes glazing over?

Do you know that I actually know several people who would actually have nodded along with that.

But I also know a lot who put their fingers in their ears and go "la la la la la la la".

A bit like me and photography, really. I enjoy the outcomes and know enough people who do it well enough that I can graciously bow out before even entering the ring on that one, and I am not that upset.

It means there is more room in my brain for other stuff.

Unfortunately the "other stuff" space is being rented by worky stuff - some of the above and some of stories I am not at liberty to share.

But I do have room to know that it is a case of "some years it happens all the time" and go with the flow right now and see where it all leads.

I also know that the bread in the oven is smelling rather choice right now. I have done a double batch tonight - some for us, some for my sister who I will get to see briefly tomorrow.

Addled, bamboozled, befuddled, confounded, disoriented, muddled, perplexed and puzzled

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Sun, 03 Feb 2013 04:52:00 +0000

are just some of the words to describe my current state of mind.

I know the rest of the world is going on - but I am still trying to comprehend what went on a week ago, and what is still going on in so many communities near to me and near to my heart.

This is a bit of a mind dump - I need to get it out of my head because I need to make sense. However, I don't expect anyone to read through and I have turned off comments because it isn't about that. It is about sanity and trying to find my own firm, dry ground.

On Sunday, the 20th of January (was it that long ago?), tropical cyclone Oswald, a category one (the tamest) cyclone formed and was set to cross the coast between Kowanyama and Arukun up in the Cape.

We drove back from Granite Glen, where the heat and an unexpected whirlywind (which twisted a large pool umbrella into modern art and deroofed some 50 year old stables, yet left clothes on the line 30 metres away) were the main topics of conversation.

We went to a child's birthday party, where the heat and lack of rain were mentioned.

There was no ominous music or cutaways to what was in store.

On Monday, the 21st of January, Oswald had crossed the coast (causing a fair bit of damage in transit - but hey, aren't they used to that up North?) and the Bureau of Meteorology had declared it an "ex"-tropical cyclone, which was to quickly become a rain depression and either head inland and drop rain, or head out to sea and possibly reform.

We bought school stationary and contemplated the end of the school holidays, anticipated visitors and the return to school.

On Tuesday, the 22nd of January, there were reports of a tornado in the wake of ex-tropical cyclone over a weather station near Mackay, which was declared "interesting" but, while the North were experiencing rain, it was January and they have complained of the lack of monsoon compliance up there recently...

I worked and verified holiday plans for visitors. V bought a heap of groceries to cater for the impending hordes.

On Wednesday, the 23rd of January, Rockhampton started to feel the full effects of Oswald's depression.

Here, it was hot and we awaited the arrival of our visitors with glee. When they arrived (with campervan, very new Australian and dog, plans were made to swim often at the beach and festivities with other friends and neighbours. There were a few showers that evening.

On Thursday, the 24th of January, Oswald had caused some flooding in Gladstone.

As the rain had started to get a little more determined here also, a friend from Melbourne staying in 1770 and I agreed to monitor the situation before she came South for a barbeque we had organised for the Friday. I had a job interview and a carful of teenagers who got to visit the local Art Gallery and Library for fun (the beach being not so much fun).

On Friday, the 25th of January, Oswald had started offering us a lot more rain, and it was starting to affect a few surrounding areas. As I knew rain was hitting the catchment area pretty hard, and also that of a river that regularly cuts the highway at Gympie to the South, I advised our visitors to go home early so that they could actually get home.

On Saturday, the 26th of January (Australia Day), we agreed with our lovely "86 year young" neighbour that we would still have a barbeque and they would come over to join us, bugger Oswald. She and her visiting daughter were to arrive between 12.30 and 1.00pm.

I spoke to my mother on the phone, and she advised they had received a great deal of rainfall at Monto, and many old-timers were saying that they had never seen the water rise so high on the flats.

We had the barbeque set up under the house and the dining table all decked out for our "Bugger Oswald Australia Day" celebrations.

At about 20 to 1, the howling winds and torrential rain seemed to stop - we hoped that our guests could take advantage of the lull - when all of a sudden the wind resumed with what seemed to be double the noise and velocity. Then all the electricity went out and the howling winds and torrential rain continued.

I checked my mobile - I have a new u-beaut mobile, so was able to see that the bowls club where we had our wedding reception - 2 blocks away - had been demolished by a tornado. I was able to speak briefly to my sister and let her know we were okay.

The neighbours eventually got over here (in the howling winds and torrential rain) so we still did hold our "Bugger Oswald Australia Day" lunch, but had that whole doomed feeling that perhaps Oswald had buggered Australia Day.

Sirens and emergency vehicles raced past from time to time. There were rumours of trees and cars being severely damaged - at least one with people inside. I flicked on my phone from time to time to get a Facebook update, but tried to conserve the very low battery. We had my daughter's iPod to try to get some digital radio news.

We were advised that there was a high possibility of more tornadoes - not that we could do much, as we had no power, the rain and high tides ensured we had no driveway and the howling winds and torrential rain just kept on keeping on.

That night, there were several times when the wind increased noise and velocity - and we hoped to goodness that it wasn't hitting homes, people - or us. We were lucky. A few near by communities were not.

Things we have now learned:

Turn off wi-fi connections and synching (apparently) on your u-beaut mobile phone so it won't run out of battery in hours
Ensure you have a good supply of the right size batteries for your radio so you can get updates
Have an old-fashioned plug into the wall phone in case the power goes out to keep contact with the outside world
Make sure you have some cash, candles, water and long life milk at the ready
Update all important phone numbers in an old-fashioned address book from time to time, so you are not reliant on phone memories

We also have a list of things that we will have before the next emergency. We also now acknowledge that the possibilities of a "next emergency" are higher than previously thought.

On Sunday, the 27th of January, we still had howling winds, torrential rain, no power, no driveway and no phone. I did try to remind my loved ones that we had a roof, sewerage and running water.

We had to have the doors and windows all shut tight against the might of Oswald - which is a very hard thing to live with without fans or distractions.

Soon after arising, the headache forming behind my right eye turned into a full-blown migraine - I get two different types, this one was the sort that meant I threw up whenever I put anything into my stomach (like water or panadol) or whenever I moved.

V got to experience all of the joys of being the sole coherent adult in a house with a toddler who didn't really understand, a teenager who sort of understood (but was having to deal with the privations of very limited iPad time) and a wife who kept trying to be stoic and upright, only to race off to the bathroom and crawl back to bed in defeat. Did I mention thank goodness for sewerage and running water?

Gradually as the day went on, the wind and rain came in waves rather than constantly, and then there was patches of blue sky, and then the water level went back down and then the sun came out and pretended like nothing had happened.

I felt "okay" by mid-afternoon, and rewarded V by taking the girls out of the house for an hour or so while I tried to scout out some ice (THANK YOU to the local petrol station for ensuring the town supply of that), recharge options (lucked out as the half of the town with power was the half of the town on the OTHER side of floodwaters) and information (no go there either).

We saw some devastating scenes - not just the bowls club, but houses, houses of friends, shops and trees. The path of the tornado was actually quite narrow and very definitive - but I am not sure what Standards would be required to withstand what had gone through.

We went to the park, where there was a yacht against the rock and a few very shell-shocked people wandering around. Our town is a beachside holiday destination and it was a long weekend. Not the relaxing holiday many had planned.

Monday, the 28th of January was a public holiday. It was sunny and bright. We still had no power, and no news - and the freezer full of meat that was so promising when anticipating visitors started to look more like a loadstone.

Luckily, I bumped into a lady I knew through 'Salina's old school whose power had been restored the night before AND she had room in her freezer, and so the majority of the meat was saved. The rest of the day was an enforced defrost of fridges and freezers.

The road to the other side of town were also reopened, so my phone and 'Salina were recharged at a friend's place and some much needed social contact was re-established.

At 4.05pm, the fans came on and a jig of glee was danced - so many luxuries brought by electricity were welcomed back into our lives.

With electricity was access to news, and this was the first we learned just how widespread and devastating the floods were. Towns under water. Roads washed away. At the same moment our power came on, hundreds of people were advised to climb onto their rooves and wave for helicopters as the local river broke its banks and entered homes at the same rate as the main river flow, estimated at 70 km/hr.

Ex-tropical cyclone Oswald had also wreaked major flooding and devastation amongst many communities to the south of us, and was working his way through the northern region of New South Wales.

It is so hard to process what has gone on around you when you are cocooned for so long and thrust back into a world with a whole new set of stresses - truly huge stresses for many - and you just cannot grasp. You need background, you need context. I have spent days trawling through old stories trying to see what happened, what I missed.

I know other people have moved on. Oswald was old news, last week. For many in the nearby town, Oswald will forever have an impact - but for me, I am lucky. I didn't lose my house, my possessions

- just, it seems, a bit of my cognitive ability and grip.

Edit edit edit.

Welcome to paradise.

I have turned comments back on after a few people contacted me - but I have also turned comment verification back on, because the last thing I need to deal with right now is acknowledging the fact are spammers outnumber people...

Ossie, Ossie, Ossie...

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Tue, 29 Jan 2013 05:07:00 +0000

or as I prefer to refer to him, the ex from hell.

Hello from Paradise. Today is beautiful right here - sunshine, hot enough to steam you from both sides as we have had some rain of late. Plenty, in fact.

Just inland of us, there are 2,000 families who are without their homes tonight. A little further inland are whole towns completely isolated, without power, communication or even potable water.

It puts things into perspective.

It puts our last few days into perspective.

So, how was your Australia Day celebrations?

Usual longer version ramble following, but right now I say:

I am grateful for the roof above my head and the safety that it offers me, as there are many (friends of mine included) who don't have that luxury thanks to a tornado that went by (2 blocks from here) when we were battened down with ex-tropical cyclone Oswald being a bit of a bastard in the region.
I love electricity. After 51 hours without it, I love the fact that it offers hot water, fans, the kettle, stove/oven/microwave options, refrigeration, lighting, telephone connection, mobile recharging and entertainment options.
We now have an emergency kit list - and not a "one day we should" attitude. Once shops are restocked, we will even purchase all those little things on it.

I hope you all fared well, and haven't been to Ossified. If you have, feel free to share your stories - and if you want me to share them, I will on your behalf.

P-p-p-pepper Steak

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Sun, 13 Jan 2013 05:08:00 +0000

As a child I loved books of all varieties, really, and worked my way through the two-teacher school library by Year Five.

My "most-often borrowed" books were from the second shelf down, 3 bookshelves to the left of the corner - recipe books. It had everything - history, culture and food.

I had tasted in my mind many dishes that I had no chance of ever getting the ingredients for. Granite Glen - and the little town servicing it - in the 1980s had little in the shops that held anything more exotic than dried herbs and basic vegetables. According to Mum, this was hugely superior to Granite Glen - and the little town servicing it - in the 1960s.

This spread to my investigation of Mum's collection of magazines and books on the "recipe shelf" in her cupboard. Mum's mother used to shoo her children out of the kitchen as "there would be plenty of time for that when you have your own house to look after" - consequently, Mum was taught to cook (on a wood combustion stove) by Margaret Fulton and the rest of the ladies at the Women's Weekly test kitchen. She kept every magazine and clipping that every gave her that culinary edge - and it was at my disposal because she wasn't going to do what her mother did.

I also discovered offers on the back of packages for "Free Recipe Books" - and I took full advantage of such offers and sent off stamped self-addressed envelopes EVERYWHERE.

When I was 11, mum was hit hard by Ross River Fever (or virus). Dad used to joke about Mum's boyfriend ("she's in bed with Ross") but the aches and pain she obviously had you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. It wasn't every day, but most days you could tell she was trying hard just to get through.

There was an upside, though - Mum had to hand over cooking to me. Muahahahaha.

I was her number one pest in the kitchen (trying to get permission to test the above recipes on my family) and my sister was at boarding school. I broke her in gently, at first - consulted meal choices, best methods of preparation and, invariably, food substitutions (see abovementioned ingredients issue) - but I must admit that I might have taken advantage of the situation by working just a few of the ideas that had been planted into my head by the recipe collections I had trawled and amassed.

Looking back on it, it was truly a horrible year for Mum. It seemed that when Mum wasn't laid flat out recuperating from another beating by Ross, she was travelling around Queensland ensuring that extended and close family were able to see specialists - the joy of being the family pharmacist therefore keeper of all information and advocacy medical - and putting relatives in/taking relatives out of various hospitals.

Add to that (and pertinent to this story), her firstborn not only went off to boarding school that year, but also seriously broke her arm, was misdiagnosed with appendicitis (and subsequent issues regarding the bits of the body that should have been diagnosed), got forklifted onto a plane (I will leave that there - someone else can tell that story) and had an infection develop in the badly set broken arm.

As a result, Mum and Dad decided to take her to see our personal Orthapedic specialist (Dad is the sort of guy who isn't accident prone, but when faced with an accident does it exceptionally well).

This meant that I was at home alone with my baby brother GB, then aged 7 1/2. In those days, this was perfectly fine because we had a lot of chores to do when we got home from school, I could organise and cook a meal and Dad was expected home about when we were due to go to bed.

This ALSO meant that I got to look out a recipe that I had never before tried (and Mum was in no position to veto) - I chose Pepper Steak.

The recipe called for several tablespoons of cracked peppercorns - and yay, Mum did have peppercorns in her pantry and I knew how to use the mortar and pestle.

Given his age and lack of Pepper Steak experience, I decided to take it easy on my test subject and used only a quarter of the recommended corns.

I was so proud of my finished meal - there was a fancy potato bake, something green (I may have tizzied up reconstituted or frozen peas - fresh green things weren't plentiful in the day) and probably something orange (Dad always threw a few pumpkin seeds into the ashes of any fire burned up the paddock, and we weren't afraid of sweet potatoes) - supporting the main player, my Pepper Steak.

It was MAGNIFICENT with its crust of cracked peppercorns and a creamy sauce (with a bit more peppercorn activity) artfully poured with a decorative flourish.

GB wanted to try some straight away, but I was a ~~good~~ bossy big sister, and I insisted that we say Grace before eating just as we would have had Mum or Dad been home.

The allure, however, was just too wonderful for my dear little brother. As I had banned him from trying a mouthful, he just leaned over and licked his steak...

Can you imagine the air of superiority I had when I mentioned that perhaps God didn't like him testing before eating either, and that burning sensation that he had was what smite was about?

GB was truly unimpressed with my attitude and the food on offer, and so we then held a battle that will remain unchronicled - let us just say that by the time Dad got home, his son had been a mute vegetarian for about 2 hours.

When Dad walked in, GB broke his silence with accusations that I had tried to kill him, while it was all I could do to rebut furiously and denigrate his tastebuds and lack of piety.

I remember quite clearly Dad shutting us up with a "Your Sister Could Lose Her Arm" - he was good at that, the capitalised sentence that quieted his offspring.

The funny thing is, Pepper Steak never did get another run under my watch out there. And my sister didn't lose her arm.

What is your most vivid meal memory?

High Tide

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Sat, 12 Jan 2013 12:02:00 +0000

It was a king tide this morning, and we made sure we were ready to walk over there and take full advantage.

It was altogether a much better day today, possibly because less plans were made to be trashed - but also because jobs that had to be done were - and re-enactments that were required worked...

to a degree.

V Day Celebrations

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 12:25:00 +0000

Poor old V.

Paris woke him at 5.30 (not because it is his birthday but because she sneaks into our bed between 3 and 4 and then commences wriggling until one of us arises, at which point she smiles and advises that she is awake too).

It is a stinking hot day here today - relatively, of course. The maximum is 33, which is about exactly what the temperature has probably been for the last week and will be for the next, but it is as humid as a sauna and has been since - well, since 6.30, which is when I slept in until (and tagged him on the whole "entertain Paris" role that is our main task at hand these days).

He got phone calls, but missed the one from 'Salina (got a message on MessageBank, but she didn't sing Happy Birthday, which is mandatory, so we will be following that up later).

We went to the beach - that in itself wasn't onerous at all - but while discussing our strategy (involving who was on "entertain Paris" duty, which is more about wrangling between the flags than actually dealing with whine while on the beach - a pleasant change) a wave caught him unawares just at the bit that causes the bottom bit of knee to wobble around against the top bit of knee, and when there is nothing in between those bits of knees this can cause something close to excrutiation!

Due to a upcoming opportunity, I have need to visit a particular cafe and so I proposed that for lunch, (rather than having the "toasted leftover wraps" that I do so well).

We all dressed up - well, Paris dressed up (in tutu and sparkly shirt) and I matched her (although my tutu was more of a maxi-skirt, but we were both, coincidentally, in pink and white - although as Paris did point out, I didn't have any silver stars), and V - well, he wore a shirt and boardies (which is his daily uniform) - and worked on a plan.

We first visited the library, and despite me having the forethought to reserve rather than contemplate the sifting through the DVDs to find the last series of Hamish Macbeth for our viewing pleasure, it hadn't yet been acted on so we still had to do the sift - more sand in the shoe than total devastation.

Then we hit the main drag to find the cafe - after one circuit to locate the cafe without luck in either parking or location (side note - why don't businesses put the street numbers on display?), we brought in technology to try and find it for us - and I am blaming shortcomings in the technology for the first block's walk with a three year old and a V with a gammy knee on it fooling me (and definitely not on the whole "the map was upside down" suggestion that V may have made). After asking the local constabulary (much more reliable than technology) we walked back to find that the cafe was tiny and choc a block with patrons.

We thought we might overcome that by getting a counter-ie at the revamped pub on the corner - to discover that they too were well patronised and nary a table to be had. The fact that a large tableful of people from the establishment that deviated from employing me fairly recently sealed the fact that we weren't going to wait around for an opening.

By then, the attitude of a V in pain and an over-excited and hungry Paris led to the decision that a certain Scottish establishment would cater her meal, and those "toasted leftover wraps" were back on our menu!

A very important birthday phone call was interrupted by technology again this afternoon, with our hands-free phone also displaying signal-free interludes during conversation. Another thing added to the "things we need to replace" list.

V went to go to the shops for some dinner items, and car battery charger got added to the "things we need to replace" list.

Luckily, the complete lack of battery made itself known in our driveway, so V still got to the shops for dinner items AND got to have the RACQ come visit us and recommend the abovementioned car battery charger...

Paris and I set about making his birthday cake - the old favourite, Moist Chocolate Cake by Stay at Home Mum. Do you know what a difference it makes if you read 1 1/4 as 1 3/4 when you are looking at the sugar?

Yeah - not recommended.

On the whole, though, he did say that he enjoyed the day. Isn't he sweet? Happy birthday darling - and next year its going to be different. Isn't it?

Sweet....

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Thu, 10 Jan 2013 12:47:00 +0000

We went the markets on Sunday, and spent wisely, returning with vegetables, a jar of relish and many, many promises for the future (in the form of seedlings).

On the way home, I forgot to grab one of the $2 bags of sweet potatoes from the stall by the side of the road.

But that was okay, because I had been meaning for months to see whether there were any sweet spuds (which apparently are not yams - although there is room for arguments about historical linguistics) beneath the proliferation of vine leaves that had come up without design last year.

During the wondering period, we had already done a harvest of the vine and had some with onion, tomato and chilli, the way that I think friends of mine (ours if you are an old friend from Sydney reading this) used to prepare it for us - a most lush and wonderful foliage to eat.

So on Sunday afternoon, before doing more important things such as preparing the beds for all of the seedlings that we bought, I "investigated"...

Just a few, then. They just kept on coming, folks - THIS is the vegetable to end world hunger!! I left left the scarred and small ones to dry downstairs to try and deliberately plant next season (although now I have done some investigation, I should have taken cuttings from the vine as it is meant to be easier propogation and less likely to develop weevils).

However, I still have EIGHT kilograms (over 17.5 lbs) of sweet potato to cook with!

I took the largest one (over 1 kilogram in that one alone) and put it through the food processor to process my sister's favourite method for the sweet potato.

There is no "after" photo, as it took over 4 hours to slow roast the beggars, and I am working my way through the 3 containers full. Please note - they don't stay crisp, but are still quite yummy chewy (and without the garlic aioli)!!!

My favourite method with sweet potatoes is just roast - and roast well. Leenie, over at Side Trips advised me that she had only ever had them candied with marshmallows, and didn't appear to be a fan of that method - I can only imagine!!

So - what is your favourite?

Grandma Jean and genetic traits

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 05:53:00 +0000

I was over at Facebook recently, and my cousin had put up a photo of her daughter and granddaughter.

I commented on her photo, saying "Oh my, your mum is never far away there" and then I cringed.

You see, her mum is my aunt - my dad's sister. One thing that is for sure and certain on that side of the family tree is that a fair percentage of the fruit have fairly strong characteristics.

Brown eyes. Cow eyelashes. Well defined chin point. Stubborn jaw.

'Salina looks exactly like a cross between my sister and my sister outlaw - honestly, either of them could go off with her and never get questioned on connections.

Paris looks very much like her dad - a much smaller, younger female version of him, to be fair, but I didn't get a great deal of look in there. Not that I am in any way complaining.

While I don't look exactly like my cousin or my cousin's daughter or my cousin's granddaughter or my aunt - or indeed another of my cousins and several of the next generation - it wouldn't take a laboratory to ascertain that we are all related.

Brown eyes. Cow eyelashes. Well defined chin point. Stubborn jaw.

When I was a child, people would always comment on "how much she looks like Jean".

Whenever we went down to visit her, her friends would say hello in the street and comment on her carbon copy.

I even visited an old people's home (through school) when I was 14 and a complete stranger said "do you know Jean (her maiden name)?" - he hadn't seen her for 60 years at that point.

So while my body has suffered from diets and depressions and pregnancies and good living; while my hair has been long, short, shorn, black, purple, red, brindle and grey (until I colour it again); and although I have had jaw surgery for dental work when I was much younger - it has not changed and will never change one big thing.

I still look like my grandmother - perhaps a fatter, longer-haired, pointier-nosed version for the 21st century, but just like her - just like my aunt, my cousin, her daughter and her granddaughter.

And the scariest thing is I have a fairly good idea of what I will look like when I am old.

So - does your family harbour its own doppelgangers, or do the genes allow the blend to smoosh more easily?

There is no HOT like the hot of a 1970s school day

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 05:54:00 +0000

NO heatwave is ever quite like the hot that was experienced when we were kids.

There are heatwaves going on all around Australia at the moment. Bush Babe of Oz* has actually just blogged some Heatwave Fire Tips and has an awesome giveaway over at her blog today.

I won't kybosh your chances (although I will comment with a disclaimer), as I have already won - I was inspired to share with you a typical school day.

It matters not which year it was. Somewhere between 1975 (because that is when I started primary school) and 1981 (because that is when I finished primary school), I would say.

It was definitely October, November, February or March - September is always a bit of a "oh, I will think about getting hot" month, but never sustains. April can surprise, but prefers to shock with previews of Winter.

While it MAY have been December or January, back in the day when I was a girl, we had 3 term school years and decent Christmas holidays, which meant that these months were reserved for mustering.

School days, when I was a girl, consisted of getting persuaded to rise at a "reasonable hour" - in my childhood home, a reasonable hour was prior to 7am (otherwise, apparently, you missed the best part of the day).

If the HARRUMPH of Dad's cough as he went past on his way to the pool at 5am didn't wake you; if the SPLASH of Dad diving in to the pool didn't wake you; or the HARRUMPH of Dad coming back didn't wake you - then I can assure you, the wet washer applied to your face by said Dad at whatever o'clock he though was reasonable definitely did the trick.

We had to be ready and out the door by 1/4 to 8 anyway, as we had a 1km cycle to get to "The Bike Box". That was a doddle for my older sister and my younger brother. Me - well, my - ahem - creative thought patterns - meant that the dawdle could drag me away from my main goal, and the fact that I was the world's most distracted (and possibly slow) cyclist meant that I never did learn how to k-r-r-r-t-h-p over the halfway mark grid while still astride - and so encouragement (my ears tended to get distracted at times - I will call it encouragement) was required by my siblings for me to reach the bike box and stow the bike before the school bus came past. There was more than one occasion where, indeed, we did miss the school bus - the good news was, it doubled back 5 minutes later and we could catch it from the OTHER side of the road, but the OTHER side of the road didn't have seating arrangements (i.e. stumps).

For the next hour, the bus would meander around various corrugated-gravel, bulldust and pitted bitumen roads, collecting our classmates and accounts of what was on tele last night. There were occasional interruptions of the bus driver enquiring if we could possibly keep it down back there (and threats of teaching us what a horsebite was if we didn't).

Our school was a two-teacher school - high set, weatherboard, painted Dick and Dora on the little room's windows, rainwater tanks, Arbour day tree planting strategies, the most awesome playground that evolved from a P&C working bee one year, thunderboxes, ants nests, tennis courts and a parade ground. Atmospheric control was through windows and ceiling fans.

Generally, we had a half hour before the bell rang where we put our bags on the racks and ran around playing.

One year, the hill on the other side of the town where the school was situation had a bushfire. We were never in any danger, but we could see where the flames were, where they had been - the smoke was constant - not thick, just present - and the breeze was either non-existant or flame-heated and spiralling around you.

Then there was parade - all standing tall and proud, the older girls whistling the national anthem on the recorders as the boys took turns raising the flag.

When Mr McC - the best teacher ever - was in charge, we then would do a lap or two of the school grounds at whatever pace we could muster. It was measured at 1.9km - I rarely did more than the mandatory one. In answer to a gauntlet being put down one day, Mr McC and another student did 8 laps - and several of them were almost sprinted.

However, school days must go on - two hours of attention and learning, before a short break, another two hours of attention and learning and then a longer break (and softball training), and then the interminable hour and a half of a-t-t-e-n-z-z-z-z-zzzzzzz - huh?

Yeah, that last bit of the day really was wasted. It was always about ten degrees hotter. The sun shone across the wide veranda into the classroom door directly into every child's eyes. The flies were more pestilent. The fans were louder. The heat shimmered across the playground and the second hand on the clock seemed to take a leaf and go slower and slower and s-l-o-w-e-r...

Finally 3.30 would come and we would all scream out of the classrooms (well, actually, we didn't scream - 2 teacher school, only 20 odd kids so those 2 teachers would know exactly who was screaming - and they KNEW our parents, and our parents would respond if reports of screaming were made) to line up for the bus. So that it wasn't the same kids picking the best seats every day, the teachers would get us to line up in a different way every day. Alphabetical - by first name, by last name, by middle name, by property name, age, birthdate, height, hair colour - they did it all - and we marched IN ORDER across to the bus.

The hour ride home was the reverse of the one in - and so as school mates hopped off, we took advantage of more seat space and window openings.

In those days, everyone wore shorts to school. In those days, shorts were short. In those days, seatbelts weren't fitted or compulsory, so you could slide along the seats. In those days, seats were vinyl. So if the bus, say, had been parked in a hot place, say, and you put your butt straight down onto the vinyl without the bracing of face muscles first (I don't know why it worked, but it did), you often took two or three good goes to descend. Hot, hot, hot, sweaty vinyl.

We were lucky. We could dream of the pool at home and how good it would feel when we got there. In those days, Mum hadn't yet started the battle of chlorination and filtering that would make the pool what it is these days - in those days, you skimmed the weed from the top, hope the toad numbers were low and try not to touch the bottom slime - but it was far cooler than the bus!

However - an hour. Pitted bitumen roads. Bye interesting television recalls. Bulldust. Bye fresh air through windows. Corrugated gravel roads. G-g-g-o-o-d-b-b-y-e classmates.

And then the cycle home. I was the bane of my siblings existence. "Hurry" they would barrack. On I would shakily clamber. Off they would go.

They would speed down to the grid - thk-thk-thk-thk they would zoom across the corrugations. Not me. Ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk is what each bump is like at my speed - I had tested their theories of going faster out, and had ended up in a crumpled mess and so was sticking to what I knew best.

"Come on" they would entice from the halfway grid. K-r-r-r-t-h-p and away they would go again. Ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk - dismount, hold bike by side and step-by-step I would start to walk it over the grid.

For those of you who are not quite sure of what a grid is (or think you know but want clarification) it is a dozen or so lengths of railway line welded in parallel and placed on the road (across a ditch) at a fenceline - designed to dissuade animals from thinking that the road leading out of the paddock is a thoroughfare for them AND allow mechanised vehicles easy access without the need to get out, open a gate, get in, drive through, get out, shut the gate, get in and drive on (or alternately take a child with you everywhere to save you several steps).

Please note 2 parts of that description. "lengths of railway line" - which means metal - baked in the sun for upwards of 10 hours by this point in time. "across a ditch" - which means unmowed long grass, ideal for all sort of critters to rustle in.

Now, I am not saying I am a wuss, but my - ahem - creative thought patterns would breathe life into many a monster in that long grass, and no matter how brave I talked myself up to be, that first step often would seem to inspire a hiss from unseen places.

"Come on" they would yell at me from the top of the hill, knowing that if they got home and left me there, odds are they would be sent back to see "what was keeping Jeanie so long" before they would be allowed to enter the pool, so they conserved energy and encouraged me loudly.

Their words of support did often spur me on, but added to the fear of the dangers beneath the grid, there was also the dangers of the grid itself - especially to an unshod child. (Yes, I know mum did ensure we had shoes when we LEFT home, but no-one wore shoes at our school.)

Eventually (no doubt after a fierce rock-paper-scissors competition) one or both of my siblings would come back to the halfway grid and ensure that I survived relatively unscathed before I got a "come on" (in a possibly less upbeat tone) - k-r-r-r-t-h-p and away they would go again.

* Just one disclaimer - Bush Babe of Oz was one of those siblings. She was the nice one.

Wordless Wednesday - Three Years is a lot of territory

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Wed, 02 Jan 2013 08:01:00 +0000

A lot happens in 3 years.

You can move from girlhood to adolescense - or from infant to girl.

Your body can go from helpless to self-propulsion.

Your mind can go from inquisitive to One Direction.

Your life can be thrown up in the air and land askance.

You can find focus and direction.

You can fail to discern when things need to change until it is forced.

But mostly, you can learn to love over and over and over again.

(This is part of Wordless Wednesday, hosted over at My Little Drummer Boys)

2013 - I've been waiting for a year like you

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 11:39:00 +0000

to come into my life.

In fact, much like the proverbial gin joint, any year would have done to get me out of the one that shall be henceforth never be referred to again without a spit to the floor or an avert sign flicked off the wrist.

It wasn't all bad, as far as years go - but it held a couple of curveballs that would have been a joy to watch, had it not been me at the plate and needing the hit. It wasn't much past the half-way mark when I started to keep my head as low as possible and my strikezone shrank, but still some got through and so I weaved dreams I did not allow myself to contemplate life's breath to until we were past the danger zone that 2012 represented.

So 2013 - I have plans. Wanna have some fun?

Paris, Family, Jesus, Santa Claus, Friends, Society and Food

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Sat, 29 Dec 2012 13:51:00 +0000

A lot of not much is going on around here, but a little of a great deal happened to.

It was like this.

Paris is now 3. She woke up one Friday and she was three, a number she has been anticipating for quite some time. She opened her eyes, and her attitude and her understanding and her membership and her lifestyle and she markedly and absolutely turned the cog to three.

A party was held. I thought I was super organised, with cupcakes and party bags and gluten-free options and the sandpit finished (the latter was all V's doing, actually).

In fact, I only overlooked a few tiny, weeny little things.

The first was realised in the weeks before as Spring waned and Summer approached - the party had been organised for the morning (I was thinking of naps and over-and-done-withs when I concocted that little time-bomb), and it spanned exactly the period of time that 100% sunshine is available in 93.7% of the back yard, otherwise known as the venue.

The second was realised the night prior, but not enacted upon until 1/2 an hour before the start time - no drinks organised. Slight oversight. Possibly could have played that one better.

Especially when in conjunction with the fact that time I had written on all of the invitations for the party did not exactly match the time I had stuck in my head that I had written on all of the invitations.

Major expletive-deleted synapse error there.

This meant that the 1/2 an hour before the start time that the drinks absense was acted upon was in actual written fact the start time of the party said drinks were for.

Might strike project management from my career prospects.

(I did crisis-manage that one though, by roping arriving guests into erecting ye-olde tarp-over-clothes-line shelter while juggling the watermelon my sister had brought (thank you BB and see - I can do long-distance organising at times) with the coffee and toast I still hadn't started from breakfast.

We had corralled off an area of under the house so that tools and bikes and powertools weren't subject to little hands.

We seriously underestimated some little hands and the deviousness of their methods to get into anything that someone challenged with a no.

Don't get me wrong - not to the level of "losing a limb or a little child" type of underestimation.

More a "oh my goodness, my poor friend having to be on that level of alertness at all times just to keep up with that monkey" wrestle of the party bags from prying fingers that had discovered one stash of chocolate frogs and was intent on sniffing out as much trouble as he was able.

'Salina and I had cooked up a storm on the actual day of Paris' birthday, and had great delight in litres (kilos? metres cubed?) of exotically coloured buttercream icing and a new piping set to explore.

First, there was the gluten-free option - Not Quite Nigella's Vanessa's Simplest Chocolate Apple Gluten Free Cake - which got the Mama Me Gluten Free's Buttercream Frosting in apple green.

Then I found an Orange Chocolate-Chip Cupcake recipe (the address is http://www.pebbleinyourmouth.com/orange-chocolate-chip-cupcakes/ but the site no longer seems to exist) - which got orange buttercream.

I made a double-batch of our current favourite chocolate cake, Stay at Home Mum's Moist Chocolate Cake - half went towards the actual birthday cake in pink buttercream for the day of the birthday and the other half became cupcakes and were blessed with purple buttercream.

The night prior, I suddenly did the maths and thought I might not have enough cupcakes, so I did a batch of Banana Cupcakes from a book I currently have from the library - which got buttercream au naturel.

The party bags had been done - with names and all. Of course, there were a few kids whose names I didn't know or indeed didn't know were set to attend or wasn't sure whether they would be there or not - nothing like having a kids party near Christmas to make you start doubting the validity of an RSVP option.

There were chips, dips, biscuits - the before-mentioned watermelon and indeed, many dozen fine gluten-free sausages. Oops. Forgot the bread.

Activities had been planned. Firstly, there was the sandpit - unfortunately 100% of it fit in the 93.7% of the back yard receiving 100% sunshine, and while there were enough chairs to fit the adult bottoms of the 9.07am arrivals and enough of the 6.3% of the back yard receiving only 85-90% sunshine to dapple the chairs with a dash of bottle-brush, I think the adult members whose bottoms were set to sit around their 100% sunbathed children looked at me and thought I was crazy.

However, I had a plan, and moved into action moving the cubby-house to beneath the banana grove behind the adult bottoms, dragged the swingset to beneath the frangipani and offered a prayer to avert any serious ant attacks from the ferocious insects should the wrong section of the frangipani tree be approached, although which section that should be changed often and thus they had the element of surprise on their sides.

Again, I will skip to the end at this part and advise that no incidents of this nature were reported during or since the party, and therefore I will assume that my prayer worked. Just in case you were worried. About the children. You know. I appreciate your concern - they did cross my mind. It may not look like it, but I was aware that children would be in attendance of this party. Indeed, I am the parent of one such children, and the level of attention and care that I exhibit in my primal party planning skills are in keeping with the level of attention and care that I use in every day parenting. As I have one that has survived until adolescence I feel it is an endorsement of this strategy.

'Salina and a friend of hers and some older children pulled out the buckets of play dough we had created (This link is for Natural Parenting Tip's Easy Peasy No Cook Play Dough) and various cutters and they played cooking and mixing colours - we now have 3 full buckets of multi-coloured (but gradually morphing into new conglomerations) play dough that no-one will relieve us of (its only a bad thing in the way that we have a half a shelf devoted entirely to play dough, and if you think Christmas and leftovers and watermelon and suddenly a half a shelf is a valuable piece of real estate).

We (read people who looked at me and took over organising for me at this point) then handed out watermelon (we had drinks available by this stage - we weren't THAT bad) and iced water and cleaned up the play dough and I got the cupcake holder and bevy of cupcakes and candles organised and the older kids set up a bubble-blowing station and bubbles were blown and cakes were artistically arranged and candles were inserted.

I was amazed that Paris did as well as she did - she is not the centre of attention seeker by any stretch of the imagination, and even noticing that she is singing or dancing by one person can send her into a fit of shyness, let alone the virtual turning inside out of self that can occur when total strangers' attention is brought toward her in any shape or form - the fact that she accepted the singing and attention with grace, and she (with a little bit of help from her big sister) blew out the candles was beautiful and astonishing. They all fell upon the cakes.

We then opened presents - she was very much blessed with all manner of toys and clothing and delights and accoutrements - Dora was suitably celebrated, as were the colours purple and pink, and tutus.

After this, a craft table was made (I am just realising how much work 'Salina did) and sausages were cooking (ditto for V), party bags were finalised (and there were still enough chocolate frogs - victory) and I found my discarded coffee with chips floating in it and some not-so-ferocious (yes, we do co-habitate with several varieties of varying intensities of ferociousness ants) ants swarming on my breakfast toast.

At some point my mother went out to get the bread, people left to travel far afield for Christmas, "frogs in the pond" (aka massive sugar-rush - little hands managed to toke about a half-dozen of them before my friend could pounce), party bags were handed out, balloons were blown and busted, whistles were blown, sausages were devoured (with bread) (or without, in the case of the gluten-free requirees), farewells were exchanged, party bags were handed out, messes were tidied, naps were ensured, dishes were stacked, shut down was achieved - and there were still 2 hours until it was all set to start again...

(I know the title does somewhat suggest that this post might also have touched upon the subjects of Family, Jesus, Santa Claus, Friends and Society, but I am exhausted - and the next party hasn't even started, so although these were all very worthy subjects, I think we all need a bex and a good lie down. Don't you?)

(You may have noticed that all but one of the photos accompanying the post were indeed taken by My sister, mainly due to the fact that I hadn't found the camera to charge the batteries to take photos - and my mobile, which is the current camera of choice due to the first excuse, whilst on my person, neither took photos nor indeed noticed messages from various guests advising their timing - I am typing this and thinking WT expletive-initial-deleted was I doing while running around "ko kokosh bez glave"!!! )

Mother Knows Best

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Mon, 17 Dec 2012 11:55:00 +0000

or does she?

I wrote the following in 2005 - well before I moved to Paradise, before I met V, before Paris was even a twinkle in anyone's eye...

(I was actually trying to find a poem I wrote many years prior to put up, but don't have it on disk here - and found this. It was in response to a friend on a board feeling shattered by the judgements of others.)

... I remember how judgemental I found other people (and especially other mothers) when I had a young baby.

No matter what aspect of motherhood you look at, there are MAJOR judgement calls being made.

Do you breastfeed? Do you formula feed? Are you using fast or slow flowing teats? Do you use a dummy? Do you let your baby cry? Do you pick your baby up at the first whimper? Do you carry your baby everywhere? Do you leave your baby in the pram? Do you let your baby have the required amount of tummy time each day? Do you put your baby in the sun? Do you put sunscreen on your baby? Do you dress you baby warmly enough? Do you give your baby nappy free time? Do you use cloth or disposable? When are you going to toilet train?

Can your baby roll/crawl/walk yet? Is s/he still using a dummy? Can s/he climb stairs? Has s/he said their first word? Do you use a sipper or a cup? Does s/he like the water? Can s/he swim? Are you going to lessons? Do you get in the water?

Does s/he sleep in a cot or a bed yet? (Your bed?) How come you separated? Is his/her father in his/her life? Do you get child support? Do you have a job? Do you use childcare? A centre or in home? (A relative?) Do you go out at night? Have you got a good babysitter? Are you drinking too much? Is s/he still using baby language? Are you toilet-trained yet? Do you leave a light on at night? Does s/he sleep in his/her own bed all night? Is his/her father in his/her life? Does s/he miss him much? You're still single?

Are you going to have any more? Can s/he stand on one leg? Does s/he like The Wiggles or Hi-5? Do you let your child watch videos? Can s/he concentrate through a whole movie? Are you still giving him/her baby food? Do you feed your child junk food? Do you let your child have lollies? Do you give your child softdrink? Do you let your child go on the rides? Do you have a pet? Does your daughter/son want a sibling? Oh? Is his/her father in his/her life? You're still single? Why did you separate?

Does your child go to kindergarten? Do you work? What do you do for fun? Do you get to talk to any other adults? Do you reminisce about the old days? Do you recognize yourself in the mirror? Is s/he swimming yet? Can't s/he control her anger/crying/words/body? Does s/he recognize the alphabet? Can you chase away the monsters? Do you know about Jesus? Why do people die? Can I have a new mummy?

Does your child go to preschool? Are you on a committee? Do you work? What do you do for fun? Why do old people have wrinkles? Isn't it sad your family aren't nearer? Why can't you accept help? Do you always make your quiches runny? Why did you separate? Does my nose twitch? Is Black Beauty a boy or a girl? Can I marry you? Why can't sons/daughters marry their mothers? Have you ever gone camping while s/he was younger?

How do you do it? Are you going to home-school? Can your child read? Can s/he sing? Play a team sport? Play chess? Play? Do you let him/her watch The Simpsons? Do you let them bathe and dress themselves? Do you make him/her cut the sandwiches? Do you give him/her full cream milk? Do you still have his/her bottle? Do you give him/her logo'd clothes? Does s/he tie his/her own shoelaces? Do you use velcro still? What do you do for fun? Have you ever wanted another one? Are you still single?

Why can't the whole class come over to have a party? Why can't we have a kitten? Why is that man so short? Why can't I come in your bed? Do you work? Do you use Before and After School Care? Are you on a committee? Can you make something for a stall? his/her father in his/her life? Does s/he miss him much? How come you know those people? Have you ever seen a triple rainbow? Do you speak English at home? Is your family close? Why did you chose that school? Should I say something? What should I do? Did you ever hear from that guy again? Why can't I have an icecream now? Do you let your child eat icecream? At 10 in the morning? At 9.30 at night? Do you have a bedtime?

Can your child read? Can you spot a bully? Is your child a bully? Is your child being bullied? Are you a bully to your child? Do you let your child bully you? Is that the same outfit? Is that new? Can you afford that? Do you work? Are you on a committee? What do you do for fun? Do you drink? Do you find yourself drinking more? More often? Alone? Do you talk to strangers? Why can't we talk to strangers? Do you know that stranger? Do you recognize yourself in the mirror? Does your child do drama? Do ballet? Play team sports? Run? Exercise? Watch television? Talk to him/herself? Bite their nails? Pick their nose? Cry at a pinprick? Never laugh? Are you overprotective? Do you know where your child is? What is your child doing?

Hopefully sleeping right now - as should I be... The problem with the questions are, there are always several ways to answer - and generally whichever way you chose there is a risk of condemnation... It doesn't necessarily get any better - but you train/trade in your friends, you ignore the obvious scolds and you get selective hearing.

Now I have a teenager and a husband, some of the questions have changed - as have some answers - but one things remains the same.

In some sectors of matronly society (not all, thank goodness, or I would have NO friends), competition is fierce, and the quickest way to win is the cut your competition down.

Have you ever felt judged (or judgey)? And what is your pet peeve?

(I will fess up - apparently mine is Candy Canes...)

Cayenne V Sauce

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 11:59:00 +0000

If you lived inside my head, you would automatically say the above to the tune of "Bob the Builder" - as it is a tune that has been heard several times today, and therefore is on high-rotation repeat. Ah the joys.

I do not have the photos to prove it, but as well as the bumper basil crop I am dealing with here, there is a cayenne bush* that is as prolific.

In search of recipes that use vast quantities of cayenne peppers, I did discover Mom's Cafe Home Cooking, where she tweaked Frank's RedHot Original Cayenne Pepper Sauce Copycat Recipe.

The first time I did this recipe, I used 20 red chillies (I actually harvested over 100 chillies that round - I also made a VERY hot sweet chilli sauce and an unpalatable chilli oil), minced garlic, salt and vinegar - and boiled for about 1.5 hours, so only got a small bottle of intensely concentrated sauce that V declared "as good as Tabasco".

The last harvest that I did yielded 40 chillies, of which only a half dozen were red - so I decided today to try for a "verde" variety.

Per the original instructions, I chopped the stems off - the original called for aged, so the few days on the window sill was "preparation" and not "procrastination"

I put these into a saucepan with a few good pinches of salt, 6 cloves of Australian Garlic ** and as much white vinegar as I had on hand in the kitchen *** - about 3 1/2 cups.

I then brought it to the boil and simmered it for about 45 minutes (as we had someone coming for dinner and I didn't want the gravy getting mixed up with the hot sauce and causing conniptions).

I then chucked it all into the food processor and gave it a good whizz.

Then sieved it and jarred it - voila.

I have had a preliminary tip-of-the-finger-taste-test - It ticks the "blow your cotton socks off" box, but without that "water, water, I need water" finish. The proof, of course, will be in the rate of usage by the V man.

As this is Friday, I am linking this up at Mummy's Undeserved Blessings weekly recipe round up.

So - do you have any good recipes for me to test on the crop next go around?

* To add to the cayenne bush's wonder, it was one of a 50c punnet in the sadly unloved and neglected "take these home or we will turf them" section at the local hardware. I love a bargain that works...

** Australian Garlic (I have to specify, as getting the domestic product is as rare as hens teeth, and unless you find a good farmers market the supermarket believes it is selling you gold). I do believe I have refrained from political rants in the past, and will continue to do so but press the button and I can give you a good garlic diatribe.

*** I could have used my legs and got some more from the laundry - I am a Shannon Lush devotee, and so Bicarb and Vinegar are used in a variety of rooms for a variety of tasks.

No translation required - I can pig (and babelfish) it...

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 04:32:00 +0000

As you know, I receive spam. A lot. In fact, I have a folder of blog fodder called "spamalot" and one day I will use it.

Last night , I received a peach. I don't understand it, but as it is spam, that doesn't matter. I think it is bits of someone's thesis they have used to pad out their links (and if it is your thesis, I am so sorry the bad guys have sullied it).

Do they actually think ANYONE clicks on their links amidst unrelated sentences. Strike that. Do they actually THINK?

Anyhow, I figure I will do some translation of it to try and make sense - as I don't speak French, this could be interesting. Buckle in?

Aussi, un MiLu est a&f. Printanière. Au consommateur, jeffrey, des jeunes de qualité, émanation de mentalité. Impériale des états-Unis classique de tissus en coton, ShouGan élasticité très confortable aération. La lettre est positive, attirer LOGO broderie khan, également désignés, un mode novateur en tout les sentiments naturels. Par limited inc. et de vêtements en 1992 en tant que sociétés par chlamydia délabrés et étudiants d’importants itinéraires de style.

I think it says - "Aussie, one Mother-in-Law is a spring. If you consume Jeffrey, exude quality and can think, then you need cotton tissue and possibly elasticised well aerated underpants. A positive letter, dressed with a lacy pakistani logo, its new head and natural sentiments. With the clothing of 1992, the society had chlamydia and itineraries of style".

So really, spam in French makes a much sense as in English.

I saved myself the hassle of trying out my one year of French (coincidentally in 1992) on the rest of the letter, and put Babelfish to the test. (BTW - do you know where the term "Babelfish" comes from?)

Bien que des dissertations sur les vêtements et sa fonctionnalité sont trouvés à partir du 19ème siècle que les pays colonisateurs traités avec de nouveaux environnements, la recherche scientifique concertée sur les fonctions.

hollister france psycho-sociaux, physiologiques et d'autres vêtements (emblem in the first place normal exemple de keeping, de bewitch) s'est produite dans la première moitié de du 20ème siècle, avec des publications telles que la psychologie Flugel de vêtements en 1930, et de physiologie séminal Newburgh, du règlement de chaleur et La Expertise de vêtements en 1949. En 1968, le domaine de la physiologie de l'environnement avait avancé et élargi de manière significative, mais la branch of appreciation de vêtements

Babelfish:

Although dissertations on clothing and its functionality are found from the 19th century that the colonizing countries treated with new environments, scientific research on the function.

Hollister france psychosocial, physiological and d' other clothing (emblem in the first place normal example of keeping of bewitch) brother ' is produced in the first half of the 20th century, with publications such as psychology Flügel's clothing in 1930, and of seminal Physiology Newburgh, heat regulation and the Expertise of clothing in 1949. In 1968, the area of the physiology of how ' environment had advanced and expanded significantly, but the branch of appreciation of clothing.

So, in the end, I am none the wiser - foreign spam is just the same as our spam.

(For fun, I then set Babelfish on to my profile - on the top right of this post - and put it through

Spanish: Madre, amante, poeta, procrastinater a tiempo parcial, esposa, hija, hermana, tía, cocinar, limpiador (ha ha ha), programador, escritor. Aspirantes a sobresalir en todo, pero disfrutando de la vida de formación es tirar mi camino

French: Mère, amante, poète, procrastinater à temps partiel, femme, fille, sœur, tante, cuire, nettoyant (a a été), programmeur, écrivain. Aspirant à Excel dans tous les domaines, mais profiter de la vie de

German: Mutter, Geliebte, Dichter, Teilzeit-Procrastinater, Frau, Tochter, Schwester, Tante, Cook, Reiniger (war), Programmierer, Schriftsteller. Anwärter auf Excel in allen Bereichen, sondern das Leben genießen

Italian: Madre, amante, poeta, Procrastinater part-time, moglie, figlia, sorella, zia, Cook, cleaner (era), programmatore, scrittore. Aspirando a Excel in tutte le zone, ma la vita di un genio

Japanese: 母、恋人、詩人、非常勤 Procrastinater、妻、娘、姉妹、叔母、クック、クリーナー（時代）、プログラマ、ライター。Excel のすべての領域が天才の生活を目指す

Ukranian: Матері, коханець, поет і неповний робочий день Procrastinater, дружина, дочка, сестрою, тіткою, Кука, чистіше (ера), програміст і письменник. Всі райони Excel, спрямованих на життя геніїв

and back to English: The mother, the lover, the poet and part-time Procrastinater, wife, daughter, sister, aunt, Cook, cleaner (era), a programmer and writer. All areas, aimed at living geniuses.

That is me - aimed at living geniuses...

A Short Post with Shortbread Recipe (and stuff)

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Fri, 07 Dec 2012 07:08:00 +0000

I discovered Mummy's Undeserved Blessings some time ago through Digital Parents, and she does a Weekend Cookbook (every week - I am just not quite switched on enough to blog on such a regular basis) - so today, I shall share a bit of what is going through my kitchen.

On Wednesday, I had social engagements (I know, knock down with tailfeather and all of that, but it is Christmas and even the grinch gets out occasionally).

I have been in a bit of a focaccia mood of late, and although I discovered this awesome focaccia recipe, I don't have that secret power in going back in time by a day to start a recipe - so bookmarked it for later.

I did make a quick focaccia recipe that I found (I think it might need a second rise before going into the oven for future reference) and served half of it toasted with a tomato and basil side-dish for topping, the other half I spread with home-made pesto, grilled zucchini, grilled capsicum and cheese. I also used up some leftover chicken and tortillas making "pizza bites" for kids to enjoy - the good news is the taste tests I gave to my kids went down well, the other news is that they went so quickly at the party that that was the only taste that my kids had of them!!

Wednesday evening later had come so I began the awesome focaccia - of course, I did not do the photography required - but this is the finished product about lunchtime yesterday.

We had our neighbours come to visit for afternoon tea, so I served this with an eggplant dip, another tomato/basil salad, some grilled zucchini and capsicum, varieties of ham, cheese and pickles and watermelon and chips - guess who didn't have dinner last night!! Our neighbour is Italian (he has only been here since 1960) but his "girl" is Australian - and they both pronounced this very good, so fairly high praise for my third ever focaccia attempt.

I am ~~about to cook~~ ~~cooking~~ just cooked (while V takes the kids to the beach) my new favourite chocolate cake

(but as mini-cupcakes to save hassles) and probably another batch of these shortbread as the last piece was eaten last night.

The Shortbread Recipe can be found on the side of the McKenzies Rice Flour packet, but in case you have thrown your packaging away (or live in an inferior part of the world where there is no McKenzies Rice Flour), here is the most easy and fantastic shortbread recipe in the world.

Traditional Shortbread (courtesy of the Rice Flour packet)

225g/8oz plain flour

115g/4oz rice flour

115g/4oz caster sugar

225g/8oz butter

pinch salt

(for those numerically minded, this is - 1 part each rice flour and caster sugar, 2 parts plain flour and butter - and a pinch of salt - no more wondering if your scales are accurate!!!)

Sift the dry stuff, rub in the butter, knead until smooth (don't overwork - it will hold if slightly crumby). Roll gently on a floured bench and cut shapes. Prick all over with a fork (and sprinkle with raw sugar if desired).

Cook in a slow oven (I set mine at 150 C/300 F) for 3/4 - 1 hour until pale brown.

Our neighbour on the other side shared with us the sad news of her husband's passing during the week - I will give you the story of the amazing Jean (and her Ron) one day, but this afternoon I will take her a goodies pack to help her cater for the relatives who are set to invade.

A post in which my artistic side gets a look

noreply@blogger.com (jeanie) — Mon, 03 Dec 2012 13:24:00 +0000

and fails miserably.

I have a sister who is a photographer. I have a sister-in-law who is a photographer. I have an aunt who is a photographer. My mother can paint. My brother can carve.

I can rhyme or unrhyme, I can cook and I can compute. But that whole visual artistic malarkey - FAIL.

Tonight I cooked shortbread. It smells divine. Going by last year's batches, I can do shortbread. Just not prettily.

Ah well. V gave it the thumbs up.