A Pasta Meditation

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I once knew a delightful and eclectic man who had lived a colourful youth in the sixties and seventies – a time when Melbourne grunge earned its reputation.

Living in a hovel with barely two cents to his name, he told me of the days there was nothing to eat but the herbs in his wild, overgrown garden.

From this had evolved a rich pasta sauce made entirely of wine, fresh herbs and garlic.  He had turned it into a Friday night tradition, to which I was now being treated.

Prior to this, I had only thought of herbs as a garnish or a flavour enhancement – never as a main dish.  But I was so enamoured with the sensory explosion, I had to try it for myself.

If you struggle, as I do, to keep your own herb garden alive, this can be a costly affair.  However, the rewards far outweigh the cost.

Now it has become one of my own favourite Friday night rituals, so I thought I’d share it with you.

Fresh Herb and Red Wine Sauce

The dish is less a recipe than a meditation, and as I’m no Masterchef, it probably doesn’t follow ‘correct’ procedures or exact quantities.  But that’s the point.

The beauty of it is allowing yourself to disconnect from phones, emails and blog stats (!), to focus on the task at hand, and see where the flavours will take you.  So view this as a guide rather than a formula, and feel free to get creative and vary the ingredients.

1 cup of red wine
1/2 cup olive oil

1 chopped onion (in this case, Spanish onion)

Large serve fresh (or frozen) basil leaves
1 star anise
1 small strand of cinnamon
1 strip of lemon rind
2 garlic cloves

2 strands Rosemary
6 strands Thyme
20 leaves Oregano
5-10 leaves Sage
Generous handful Coriander
Generous handful Dill
Touch of Tarragon

Heat the oil and wine in the pan.  Add onions, and simmer gently.

The quantity and combination of herbs should be balanced according to taste, and added to the pan in stages, allowing them to simmer for a couple of minutes before each new addition.  This is the order I would add the herbs:

Basil, cinnamon, star anise and lemon rind.
Rosemary and thyme (I leave stalks on and remove them later).
Oregano and tarragon.
Sage and garlic crushed together using mortar and pestle.
Dill and coriander.

Simmer until wine is reduced.

Add approx. 350 g Passata and 200g crushed tomatoes.

Simmer low until flavours are infused (15-20 mins).  Cover and leave to sit.

You know you have succeeded when the flavours are so well harmonised that it is impossible to identify the individual herbs.

Cook enough fettucine for two.  Add the herb sauce and some parmesan cheese – and your meal is ready to enjoy!

Accompaniments

Serve with a glass of red wine (or a martini!).

Add some lamp or candlelight (a real fire, if you have one), and your favourite person.

Some fine, mellow music.

Let your tired soul be nourished for another week…

What would you add to this ritual?  Or maybe you have a favourite ritual of your own you’d like to share?  Feel free to leave a link if you have a post on it…

Ooroo, Grandma

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The gulf left behind by Pepi’s passing has been so much greater than I expected.  It’s made me realise how lucky I am that, of the many goodbyes in my life, few have been permanent.

The only person I’ve lost that mattered to me was my Grandma, when I was eight.  She was seventy-one.  Defeated by cancer.

I remember being woken by my older brother and sister, and delivered the overnight news; their worry, and the feeling of numbness that gripped.

It was only as the coffin lowered, to the solemn recitation of “Ashes to ashes…”, that the numbness turned to grief.

After that, fragments of memory.

My other Nanna, the one I didn’t care for, making a triumphant show of comforting me.

At the wake, the older kids across the room staring at my reddened eyes as I refused to eat.

The feeling I was the only one crying.

The vow never to let them see me cry again.

I was her favourite, they always liked to say.  But that wasn’t how I saw it.  She was simply my favourite.  My most important person in the world.

Grandma was the only person I was allowed to escape to visit for a sleepover – which I did as often as I could.

She’d let me sit up with her in bed and watch A Country Practice.

Afterwards, I would kiss her goodnight and tiptoe off to my own room filled with the scary shadows of overstuffed brown wardrobes.

I’d wake to the sound of ABC wireless news, the smell of porridge and warm toast and wood smoke.

She’d talk to me as I followed her around in the garden, and take me visiting with her friends, where I’d be offered tea with Iced Vovo.

There were the precious moments of laughter and consternation that we shared.

The night she dozed off, falsies  in the glass beside her, when my light goodnight kiss provoked a startled gummy scream.

The morning she couldn’t get the potbelly burning, and smoke billowed, and the comedy of it all tickled me with unappreciated giggles.

The day, as we walked on the beach, Grandma stumbled in the sand and we were uncontrollably struck by the moment’s hilarity.

But, perhaps best of all, was Trudy – the fluffy, yappy Pomeranian.

The rest of the family hated how she doted on that dog.  How Grandma talked to her (as if she understood!).  How she hand fed her human ‘tidbits’.  And cleaned her teeth.  And gave her the run of the house (not to mention everybody else’s).

But it all seemed perfectly natural to me.  And so I found myself idolising the ground my Grandma walked on.

I dressed myself in my signature yellow-rimmed spectacles (glass removed), and marched about with a stuffed toy dog under my arm, parroting Grandma’s every word.

“Ooroo,” she would say from her back step, Trudy under arm (‘Ooroo’ is ancient Aussie for goodbye).

Much to everyone’s irritation, I also honed a perfect imitation of Trudy’s bark.

To this day, whenever I say something not to my sister’s liking, her favourite refrain is “Oh, you old Grandma.”

Perhaps, if she had lived long enough, I might have come to see her as the crotchety old bag the others always claim she was.  But, from the rose coloured perspective of an eight year old, I can imagine worse things to be called.

Once, a local Aboriginal elder explained to me how children inherit the totems and characteristics of their grandparents.  It is this relationship that shapes them, and is considered much more important than the child-parent bond.

As I look back, this seems to resonate.  My independent Grandma and her little dog.  Is this why, as a young adult, I found myself bringing home a Pepi pup?  A replay of that little girl running around with a stuffed toy dog under her arm – only this time for real?

It seems silly, but I am strangely comforted.  As though she’s with me as I say “Ooroo”.

Do you have a special Grandparent?  How have they left traces of themselves in you?

Dear Pepi

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This week, I mourn the loss of the fur being who supported me through my first sixteen years of adult life.

The end came sooner than expected, and I am unspeakably sad.

But Pepi now dreams of a world without pain, of eternal golden orbs and endless grassy meadows…

He is at peace.

Dear Pepi RIP

1 June 1996 – 26 September 2012

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Out of respect for Pepi, there will be no new posts until further notice.

Instead, please visit the boy with a hat.

While you’re there, download his free eBook, 50 Tales.

They are beautiful, whimsical, sometimes naughty, often funny little vignettes of life, and are sure to make you glad to be alive.

Campfire Magic

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Some of you will know already that last weekend I took a little day trip to a regional park, known as the You Yangs.

In case you’re wondering, it is a name derived from a local Aboriginal word that means ‘big mountain in the middle of a plain’.

I’d promised to take some friends and have a meal over a fire back in May.  But then the weather turned bad, life happened, and before I knew it September had arrived.

To be honest, the work involved in preparing campfire food and packing up the car seemed less than appealing at first.  But we all chipped in, and on Saturday morning four of us hit the road.

The minute the fire was lit, the weight of the week lifted off…

The feeling stayed with me, and infused my on-line interactions.

Someone who I think of as my cyber Mum saw animal shapes in the fire and made me laugh.

One of my fire buddies reminisced about the yum and I was hungry all over again.

And then I was reminded of an email dialogue that started with a new on-line friend who goes by the name Campfireshadows.

It made me wonder – what is it about campfire that captures our imagination?

In the documentary, Becoming Human (Part 2), I was fascinated by the suggestion that fire was responsible for the social evolution of humans.  At least, it makes sense to me that waiting for food to cook by the fire might lead to social interaction, the development of intimate bonds and (quite possibly) of language itself.

So perhaps there’s science to the magic of food, fires and storytelling?

In a globally fragmented world, these moments of community are rare.  It makes me wish I could invite you all around my fire, for a yarn and some good ol’ Aussie tucker.  And some wine.

Instead, I open up Twitter, and find these two messages side-by-side:

And that’s when I remember the power of blogs, and Facebook and Twitter.

Sure, it doesn’t always have the same romantic glow.  I might have even been a skeptic once.

But that was before I made the effort to pack my baggage up and really Go There.

Now when I log in, more often than not, I find myself smiling and laughing and even shedding a tear as I’m invited into the intimacy of other’s private worlds.

We may not be able to gather around a real-life fire.  But we’re lighting up each other’s worlds all the same.

I don’t know about you, but I find that magical.

The Goose that Got Away

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Recently, I had a dream.

Before you groan and run away, yes, there have been times in my life I’ve been guilty of over-sharing when it comes to dreams.  But this one has a point, I promise – so stay with me.

A baby goose grew from my hip and started demanding food.

It was a greedy little critter, and soon became unwieldy attached to my hip.  So I tried to detach it and accidentally separated the poor beast from one of its legs!

It didn’t seem to mind, it just wanted food.  Lots of it.  Now.

I took the goose to the local supermarket, but somehow, they had run out of sardines.  We began to get desperate.

I stood, holding my flailing goose, by a rocky, surging coastline.  How am I going to catch fish in there? I wondered, but before I could answer, the goose wrestled free and dove in.

No!! But he hasn’t learned to swim!  He’s too weak to fish!  He’s disabled!  He’ll be crushed on the rocks!  I screamed, silently, watching for any sign of a resurging goose.

Then, on the crest of a massive wave, I saw my goose.  Head held high, swimming with the glee of a bird wild and free…

Coming back to reality is always frightening after one of those dreams.  What does it all mean? you ask, not really wanting an answer.

The truth is, I’ve been keeping a little pet project all to myself.  I thought if I don’t tell you, then it’s not real.  I can back out anytime.  It can die a hungry death and no one need be wiser.

Except my pet has started growing up!  It’s become greedy and snatching and uncontrollable.  I’m afraid you’ll start to notice my strange behavior – unexplained absences, slurred comments and an oddly non-existent life outside of blogging.

So it’s come to that point in a parent’s life when, even if I don’t think he’s ready to go public, he has other ideas.  He might be missing a leg or a whisker, but the time has come to share my work in progress with some friends…

Say Hello to Pepi.

Some of you might remember me telling you about the day I realized Pepi was the Best Man in My Life.  How I had a second chance to honour his being before he says goodbye.

Pepi never was one to have his picture taken.  Quite aside from the fact that he would never sit still long enough, he hates the camera.  And for a long time I was too allergic to budgeting poor to own one.

Instead, his story will soon come to life in a series of illustrated verse.  Above is the illustrator’s first sketch – I don’t know about you, but I think she’s done a mighty fine job.

Pepi’s not so sure.

Now when he hears his name, he’s suspicious it’s a rival dog that lives in the computer.  His fears are confirmed by the barks of Youtube Pepi look-alikes that get played on repeat!

Anyway, the point here is – I’ve been keeping this quiet in case it all goes to pot.  But now that the illustrator is weaving her magic, it is taking up hours of my day – finding reference material, reviewing sketches, researching Kindle formatting (argh), tweaking verse…and the list goes on.

This, unfortunately, leaves less room for chit-chat in the virtual social-sphere.  I’m doing my best to keep up with you all, but let’s just say, I’ve bitten off more than I can comfortably chew in learning curves this year!

At least now you’ll know it’s not because I’m sleeping on the job 😉

Do you have any wild dreams you’d like to share?  Maybe a goose that got away?  How did you handle it?

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Credit for images not mine is as follows:

Give-ourselves-a-break Week

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This week I’ve noticed a strange phenomenon going on in the blogosphere.  It seems like everyone’s gone into some sort of meltdown at the same time.

Either that, or everyone’s in a perpetual state of meltdown, and getting brave enough to talk about it.

The posts I read were illuminating.

First there was 4amWriter (who does, impressively, get up at 4am to write).  She did an analysis of her time spent Blogging vs Writing and the results were – astounding.

Let’s just say, it’s more than the average 21 hours most Aussies spend on-line in one week.

I encourage you to check out her blog, because in it are some great links to other posts and related conversations about blogging habits.

Most notable (and I hope she won’t mind my linking to this one) is a post by jmmcdowell that includes a live poll on how we follow blogs.  Did you know most people follow between 100 and 200 blogs?  I didn’t (though I am getting close to the 100 mark).

Right after I read these two posts, I saw another one by onethousandsingledays.  In I’m not a jerk, but I am sorry, she discusses the issue of life, balance and replying to blog comments.

There are other comments I’ve received, tweets I’ve read, and probably a hundred other posts I haven’t read, discussing a similar theme:

How to honour our followers
while also honouring our real life loves and occupations.

There’s no easy answer to that.  Everyone has different expectations and reasons for being here.  There are also numerous (and sometimes conflicting) rules out there about what one should and should not do.

I devoured those rules when I first started blogging.  Rules are useful – they help point me in the right direction when I haven’t got a clue.  They also (hopefully) stop me from making a complete nincompoop out of myself.

But here’s the thing:

Too many rules does not a happy blogger make.

Maybe it’s just me, but I start having what are affectionately referred to as ‘Alarna Dramas’.  I get paranoid, and wonder if maybe I did something that upset someone and maybe that is why I haven’t heard from them in, like, two weeks?

I’m no different than anyone else out there when it comes to a borderline blogging addiction.

I mean, who doesn’t feel a rush every time they log in to WordPress and see the little orange speech bubble gleaming in the corner?  Not to mention gloom when the bubble’s STILL a shade of grey.

But then I think back to those days, before blogging, when the Inbox was empty and the phone didn’t ring and nobody visited unless they were invited and I ask myself some simple questions…

  • How many meaningful real life friendships do I actually have?
  • How long do they usually last?
  • How often do I hear from them once a month, let alone once a week (and vice-versa)?
  • Is the conversation always equally two-sided?
  • Is the conversation always interesting?

When I compare that to the quality and level of weekly online engagement I’m expecting myself, and others, to adhere to, suddenly the rules fall away and I am just eternally grateful for anyone who ever bothers to come by, let alone RETURN…

So, in honour of all the faithful and not-so-faithful bloggers out there, I say, let’s give ourselves a break.

It’s like this tweet I fell in love with yesterday:

Presumably, there’s no one holding a big stick over our heads making us blog our hearts out, right?

Let’s do what’s meaningful for us, and let the natural laws of physics do their thing.

Life’s too short.  At least that’s my thought on the matter.  How about you?

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Credit for images is as follows:

Emotiguy by farconville, courtesy FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Signposts by jannoon028, courtesy FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Friends by digitalart, courtesy FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My Hard Yakka Dad

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Some of you may not realise (I know I didn’t until yesterday!) that Father’s Day in Australia happens on the first Sunday of September.  Which means in two days time!

It’s a bummer, really, because I had this Father’s Day all worked out since Susie Lindau’s post My Father the Madman back in June.  (If you haven’t joined her blog yet, it’s more than worth the ride… 🙂 )

The problem is, the mail usually takes longer to get to Tasmania than it does to the other side of the world.  And Dad doesn’t have a computer.  So now it looks like you’re going to get this before he does…I won’t tell if you don’t?

In my comment on Susie Lindau’s post, I made the mistake of saying my Dad was a ‘bit of’ an amateur inventor.  I didn’t expect her to be interested, but she was, so now I have to confess it was a ‘bit of’ a white lie.

My Dad is not so much an amateur inventor as an all-round fix-it man.  He is a builder by trade, and what that means is – even if he has not an ounce of engineering knowledge – he can figure out how stuff works.

Back when I was still young enough to be admiring, my Dad built a tractor-powered saw mill from second hand chunks of metal (that’s my technical term for it).  He welded it together, sharpened the saws by hand and it all worked like a dream.

I LOVED working on that saw mill.  I just wanted to be one of the boys, and Dad – desperate for all the help he could get – would let me play along.

I’d hang about on building sites and wood chops…

…even in the veggie patch…(actually, that’s not me, it’s a scarecrow 🙂 )

..and all the while Dad (and Mum, of course) were hard at work.

Maybe he could have been an inventor.  But there were never enough hours in the day for my Hard Yakka Dad.  (Hard Yakka is Aussie for ‘hard work’.  It’s also a brand of tough guy workwear.  Check out the video).

Even when we went camping, it was work, work, work for Dad…

And when eventually he got to stop?  Well.  No words necessary.

Over the years, we’ve had our share of differences. But the great thing about growing up is that you get to see your parents as people.  With stories, and a history of their own.

Dad, the eldest of seven kids, left school early to help his parents on the farm.

Later, he relinquished a Pacific Island dream at their request, and came home to build their house.

The rest, as they say, is history.

“What’s done is done,” he says. “No use dwelling on the past.”

But history is important.  It’s what makes us who we are.

Somehow, in its knowledge, anger dissolves.  It reveals a child’s disappointment in discovering the humanity of those we love.

Today, when I go home, Dad likes to take me on a tour of the homes he’s built.

He’s a stalwart of the industry.  One of the few remaining all-rounders.  Worth his weight in gold – they say.

Except Dad, out of some old-school sense of modesty, continues to charge less than half the going rate.

But at least he’s starting to enjoy himself.

Maybe one day soon, he’ll accept that retirement means ‘stop work’.

In the meantime, I’ll just love him for the Dad he is.

Wishing Happy Father’s Day to all the Hard Yakka Dad’s out there.

Maybe you know of one yourself?  Or maybe you, too, had a moment of discovery, when you finally saw the man?  Please share….

Thanks for Being YOU

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Many of you will know the private blogger nightmare so well articulated in Valerie Davies’ post on Bloggers Complexes.

My own little complex was recently solved by the delightful and talented Coco J. Ginger.  The next best gift, following her surprise visit to my blog, was being offered “an imaginary award in which you do not have to do anything, but just be happy”.

Like a blogger reborn, I found myself soaring with the weight of a lifted burden, and looking at my little bundle of neglected awards, I at last knew what I had to do.

To all those people who have been so thoughtful as to nominate me for an award – despite what may appear to be my ungracious refusal to participate – this one is for you 😉

♦

Delirious prose of supreme poetesses
Powerful rebirth of Phoenix goddesses
Dames of the nyght and the sun, moon and stars
You are the Venus to many the Mars

Young teenage men with ambiguous notions
World scholars dealing in happiness potions
Peace-loving fellows with wheels for their wings
Yours is a world fit for nobler kings

Kind hearted souls giving pause to good karma
Eyes tuned to hearing the wild’s hidden drama
Tread lightly trekkers whose world is their muse
You are the jazz to the ponderer’s blues

When the blog bites
When the guilt burns
What else can I do?
But simply remember what each blogger yearns –
And thank you for being YOU!

♦

Now, if I’ve made the fatal error of leaving someone out who should be on this list, please give me a gentle nudge below 😉  If not, tell me, for what do you yearn (or, alternatively, what makes you burn)?

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Credit for images goes as follows:

  • Stork in the night by Tinneketin, courtesy stock.xchng
  • Music Band 2 by fangol, courtesy stock.xchng

One Tiny Possum

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I’m blown away by all the lovely people who came by last week – from all across the globe!  If I haven’t caught up with you yet, I promise to be around in the next few days.  In the meantime, I thought you might enjoy a bit of Aussie talk.

It might surprise you to know that most Aussie neighbourhoods don’t in any way resemble the cast of Neighbours.  Strange, but true.  If you don’t believe me, check out this hilarious South Australian post, Writing, Not Bludging.

My neighbours think I am the biggest bludger on earth.

This wouldn’t be a problem if I lived in an arts suburb, like Brunswick.  But alas, I live a much less glamorous existence in a block of units housing several retirees.

On one side is Ethel.  Her biggest preoccupation is cleaning up possum poo so that her cat, Leo, doesn’t roll in it.

One day she handed me the broom and suggested I might like to have a go.  I, of course, politely declined. I could see it in her eyes, Young people these days…Whatever does she do in there all day, anyway?

So as not to make an awkward situation worse, I scampered away back inside, confirming her belief that I’m a shiftless layabout.  Later I heard her grumbling to Leo, “Those possums make such an awful mess! I don’t know where they keep on coming from…”

On the other side is George.  He has many preoccupations – watering the garden, pruning the buggery out of the trees and Friday morning bin collection, just to name a few.  He also dislikes possums.

One morning, as Pepi and I ventured on our walk, I happened to compliment him on his lemon tree.

“You know, the possums?” he booms, “They come here, from the golf-course, I think – ” he gestures, “Anyway, they come here – they eat the buds, you know? The buds!”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah! The buds. The skin. Everything…”

“Oh! No, I didn’t know.”

He proceeded to tell me how, when he chased the possum away with a stick, it ran across the power line.

“They are very clever, you know, but – yeah…they eat…”

Now, just in case you’re wondering, possums in Australia don’t breed in epidemic pest proportions.  They are unique little natives to Australia.

Brushtail possum by dr_yew courtesy stock.xchng

The smallest, forest dwelling types, like the Leadbeater and the Pygmy Possums, are on the brink of extinction.  Others, like the Brushtail and Ringtail varieties, exist in urban areas quite happily, despite our best efforts to run them out of town.

What I didn’t bother to tell George or Ethel is that I know exactly where our possum neighbour lives.  And it’s not over at the golf course.

Outside Ethel’s guest room window stands a tall conifer tree.  Invariably, there is always a small sprig of green that stands out at an angle from the tree.  The OCD in me had always wondered at its messiness.

But then, one moonlit night, as I pulled up in my car spot, there could be seen the faintest outline of two ears and a tail.

Up there, sitting on that sprig of green, was the smallest ringtail I have ever seen. He watched me, curiously, from his open door.

We stared at each other for a long while, and then I went inside.

Over my back fence is another neighbour I refer to as The Gorg.  Unfortunately, her main preoccupation is screaming at the kids before they go to school.  I’m not talking a couple of minutes of raised-voice frustration.  I’m talking spine-chilling, half-an-hour, top-of-lungs tirade.

The Gorg is growing a lemon tree by the fence so she can’t see us from her kitchen when we come out our back door.  We don’t talk much, for obvious reasons, but her cat, Lollipop, loves to spy on Pepi from the fence.

Another moonlit night, I took Pepi out the back to pee.  I heard a rustle, and assuming it was Lollipop, braced myself for a Pepi-sized tirade.

But when I looked up, it was my little possum neighbour staring from the fence.

While we stared at each other, Pepi wandered back inside, oblivious.  And then, after what seemed like an age, my possum friend jumped back into The Gorg’s tree for a feast.

One tiny possum, eking out an existence against all odds, and quite despite our petty people politics.

I don’t know about you, but his secret’s safe with me 🙂

A Moonbeam Lullaby

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A couple of weeks ago, I was introduced to a boy with a hat.

He is worthy of admiration for having taught himself English in just three years.  Now, he has greater mastery of the language than many natives that I know.  It’s a bit intimidating.

One particular day, we were (or, at least, I was) bemoaning the demise of handwriting by its fine rival, the keyboard.

I happened to let slip that the only use I have for my scrawl these days is writing in a gift card.

“Oh! Will you send me one too?” he asks. “Leave it for me on your windowsill (tie it with a red ribbon so I know it’s from you)…”.

I had to ponder this challenge a while, which now makes me a little ashamed to call myself a creative writer.

The solution, though, is one of the reasons I had to free up space in my posting schedule 🙂

So, in honour of the boy who inspired me to let the moonlight in – this one is for you… 😉

Do you send gift cards? What do you love about sending or receiving them?

If you’d like me to leave you a gift card on my windowsill – don’t be shy! Just leave  a comment, with a link to a favourite post of yours that may inspire or intrigue me. Tell me something about yourself and your passions – you never know where it may lead 🙂

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I’m no graphic artist, so credit for the images assembled goes as follows:

  • Vintage envelope by dubyadesig courtesy stock.xchng
  • Red ribbon by kunistvan courtesy stock.xchng
  • Owl in the moonlight by rknds courtesy stock.xchng
  • Vintage card by ba1969 courtesy stock.xchng