Wednesday, 25 July 2012


Piano Virtuoso
~ Laurence McKinney

From Western Coast to Eastern Seaboard
Rages the battle of the keyboard,
For storming the piano-forte
Is famous as an Indoor Sport.
Surrounded by a hundred men
Like Daniel in the Lion's Den,
The virtuoso takes his seat
Preparing to resist defeat.
A few stray shots, with unconcern
He ducks, and coolly waits his turn,
It comes, and shooting flats and sharps
He knocks them for a row of harps.
Courageous as a stag at bay,
He's up, he's down, he's got away -
The fighting stops, the music ends.
They usually part as friends.

Tuesday, 24 July 2012

Pies, muffins and general craziness


I think that I could never spy
A poem as lovely as a pie
A banquet in a single course
Blushing with red tomato sauce
A pie whose crust is oven kissed
Whose gravy scalds the eater's wrist
The pastie and the sausage roll
Have not thy brown mysterious soul
The dark hues aborigine
Is less indigenous than thee;
As round and rich as Zara
As tasteful as Patrick White
With a glass of purple para
You're the great Australian bite.

BARRY HUMPHRIES, Piece in the Form of a Meat Pie

***

Actually that would be a picture of a muffin.  So what can I report? Watching too many Modern Family back episodes.  We all love it.  We are the Dunphys. Back to school this week.  Trying to learn times tables and maintain discipline over music practice. Rondos, lullabies and bell chimes.   Final semester of primary school for Charly.  Gasp.  Still haven't reconciled myself to the choice of high school. Grieving for what could be.  Not the least interested in the Olympics but will undoubtedly get excited over the big finals and the cultural opening and closing ceremonies. Heavens, completely forgot about Guides tonite.  So best off.

Wednesday, 18 July 2012


Ode on Solitude
~ Alexander Pope

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

***

Funny how the children appear to have far more fun-filled days during the school holidays when Dad stays home.  He's not as easily distracted by over-brimming laundry baskets, dirt encrusted floor rugs or general untidiness.  While I would be sorting and tidying as I go, he can devote his singular attention to having a good time.  While I feel slightly awkward being the only one who heads out the door to work in the morning (in the knowledge that this is not just a holiday fix), it is rather splendid to come home to a warm and busy house, the aroma of a cooked meal, children chirriping about what they have done during the day and a glass of wine standing in readiness on the island bench.  It's a perverse role-reversal.  The strange solitude of the working mother.

 

Monday, 16 July 2012


May Day 

by Sara Teasdale

A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
Is everywhere.

Red small leaves of the maple
Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
The pear trees stand.

Oh I must pass nothing by
Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
The grass with my touch;

For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?


***


Still here.  Where did June go?  What's happening to July? Since the loss of my camera, a major restructure on the work front (his not mine), two birthday parties, extreme angst over choice of high school (apologies to all the people - including complete strangers - I've lynched seeking opinions) and now the school holidays, there's not been much time left over to tend to this little creative space.  But here we are, back from a week in Melbourne which included visits to the marvelleous Napoleon exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria, the Mesopotamia exhibition at the awesome Melbourne Museum and a night performance of Annie the musical at the grand Regent Theatre. So much to tell about these experiences (for another time). The children are growing like topsy and I've nothing but dodgy iphone v.1 photos to show for it.  My visual diary effectively stalled in May. 

Photo: Fly past over The Australian War Memorial, Anzac Day 2012.



Tuesday, 19 June 2012

At night when the winds arose ...


Discord in Childhood
~ DH Lawrence

Outside the house an ash-tree hung its terrible whips,
And at night when the wind arose, the lash of the tree
Shrieked and slashed the wind, as a ship’s
Weird rigging in a storm shrieks hideously.

Within the house two voices arose in anger, a slender lash
Whistling delirious rage, and the dreadful sound
Of a thick lash booming and bruising, until it drowned
The other voice in a silence of blood, ’neath the noise of the ash.


***
Still on the cusp of change with uncertainty whistling around in a delirious rage {in my head at 4.00 am} when not diverted by the practicalities of the school/work routine.  My mind is also racing with plans for three home-hosted birthday parties in close succession.  I managed to survive the first this weekend with a delightful bunch of eight-year-old girls and a husband stoically on duty by the oven warming party pies and sausage rolls.  The Nigella Feasts classic chocolate cake with sour cream icing was a hit, and thankfully looked presentable adorned with delicate flower confections and pastel candles.  My theory is that if the cake's OK, it will all turn out fine.  As it did.  Sometimes you just need to close the oven door and trust the universe. 

Saturday, 9 June 2012


Woman To Child

You who were darkness warmed my flesh
where out of darkness rose the seed.
Then all a world I made in me;
all the world you hear and see
hung upon my dreaming blood.

There moved the multitudinous stars,
and coloured birds and fishes moved.
There swam the sliding continents.
All time lay rolled in me, and sense,
and love that knew not its beloved.

O node and focus of the world;
I hold you deep within that well
you shall escape and not escape-
that mirrors still your sleeping shape;
that nurtures still your crescent cell.

I wither and you break from me;
yet though you dance in living light
I am the earth, I am the root,
I am the stem that fed the fruit,
the link that joins you to the night.

Judith Wright

***
Crazy unsettled times in the gull's nest these days. I think I'm repeating myself. There's the ongoing uncertainty over the Strong Silent One's future employment options.  Hopefully next week will provide some clarity. There's the lingering indecisiveness over choice of high school.  Pressures of preparing for multiple mid-Winter birthday parties.  The inability to find time to sit and discuss Important Issues uninterrupted and sensibly before 9.00 pm. General tiredness with the whole she-bang. All underpinned by a keen awareness that time is passing and This Is It.  Thank heavens it's a long week-end with the possibility of scraping out some time to accomplish something useful.  If only to inscribe birthday party invitations and clean the mildew off the bathroom ceiling.    

Friday, 1 June 2012

Ingredients:
  • 150 grams butter
  • ¼ cup of honey
  • 2 cups of quick cook oats
  • 3 tablespoons of seeds – I use pumpkin and flax seeds
  • 1 cup of dried apples chopped
  • ½ cup sultanas
  • ¼ cup dried cranberries
  • 1 teaspoon of baking powder
  • 3 eggs lightly whisked
To make:
  1. Line slice tray with baking paper.
  2. Turn the oven on to heat to 160 degrees.
  3. Melt the butter and honey over low heat in a pan.
  4. Add fruit and dry ingredients to a bowl.
  5. Add the melted butter and honey and then the eggs and stir to combine.
  6. Pour the combined muesli bar mixture into the slice tray.
  7. Smooth the top of the mixture and give it a shake backward and forward on the bench to settle it evenly in the pan.
  8. Bake for 20 minutes until golden on top.
  9. Remove from the oven and allow the muesli bar to cool completely in the tray.
  10. When it is cool, gently turn it onto a board.
  11. Use a sharp knife and cut into the desired length.

Chocolate savoiardi with berry cream
Ingredients (serves 6)

200g good-quality dark cooking chocolate, finely chopped
12 savoiardi biscuits
500g fresh or frozen hulled strawberries or raspberries
300mls thickened cream
1 tbs icing sugar
 
Method

Place the chocolate in a medium heat-resistant bowl and stir over a saucepan of simmering water until the chocolate has melted and is smooth. Remove from heat. (See microwave tip.)

Dip one end of each of the savoiardi biscuits into the melted chocolate to coat well. Place on a foil-lined tray and stand in a cool place until chocolate is set.

Lightly mash half the strawberries or raspberries. Beat the cream and icing sugar in a medium bowl with electric beaters until soft peaks form. Add the mashed berries and gently fold them through the cream mixture with a metal spoon until just combined. Spoon into a serving bowl or smaller individual bowls.

Serve the chocolate-coated savoiardi biscuits with the berry cream accompanied by the remaining berries.
Dinner

Rice paper rolls
Home-made pizza
Savoiardi biscuits, jelly and cream

{this moment}


{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.   Joining in with SouleMama.

ps. It has just ticked over midnight on Friday night down under so it appears I've missed the ritual deadline. Ah well.

{this moment} New Boots

Thursday, 31 May 2012

Hard Copy: All the way



A Book

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
 ***
Here's to hard copy.  People look at me askance in the office when I suggest printing a publication.  It's all pdf and html to them.  I have a Kindle but it's not the same as a book; a real new book smelling of ink and clean paper.   Untouched.  I don't much go for second hand books except when they are library books and even then I leap for joy when I score a new book acquisition and discover I am the first borrower.   I hope no more bookstores go out of business.  How ever will we browse the new book selection?  We are writing to Queen Elizabeth on the occasion of her Diamond Jubilee.  You can do so by email (as we've done) but it's not the same as writing a real letter either.  Receiving an honest to goodness letter by reply in the mail from the Lady-in-Waiting at Balmoral Castle is such a thrill, I can tell you.  No email pdf can match it.

Poem by Emily Dickinson

Saturday, 26 May 2012

Still here



...but without camera. 

Crazy days here.  Looking at high schools for 2013.  Not impressed with the public schools on offer and not totally satisfied with local private school.  Talk about chalk and cheese.   Everything from cost to curriculum and communication with parents is diametrically opposite and none have the perfect fit. 

We're also adjusting to changes on the work front which have a flow-on effect on the whole family.  Difficult times.  Decisions to be made.

Saturdays are now entirely consumed by soccer games which squeezes an already tight timetable.  It's tiring, but I must confess to finding it fun to watch 7,9 and 11 year olds play their matches and observe the different skill levels emerge.

So, all up, I'm savouring the family vibe but with an undercurrent of stress this week. 

Saturday, 12 May 2012


A Series of Squares

~ Raymond Foss

The work, the lawn
carved up into a series of squares
crisp edges, overlapping rows
breaking all up
a section at a time.

Like parts of a maze,
a prayer labyrinth
in the segments, the squares
the rectangles and the edges,
all woven, walked

A series of squares,
around the trees, the pines
at the edge of the hill,
between the beds
the soccer field

A pattern of pieces
together a whole
watching the skies
for the clouds above
rounding each corner
to finish the whole
***

It was the first full day of soccer  matches yesterday.  From 9.00 pm to 3.00 pm in three different venues. That's an entire school day spent on the road.  Admittedly, thanks to being a two-car family, I managed to squeeze a grocery shop and few loads of washing back home into the schedule - blissfully aware, I might add, that this was a privileged option.

I still find it unusual to see girls play soccer, especially novice seven-year-olds with legs like fawns and sweet ponytails swinging as they chase the ball.  It's a great atmosphere pitch-side with attentive parents shouting encouragement.   However, I still jump when a mother bellows from the top of her lungs when standing right next to me ... some can even manage it mid-conversation.  It's all a bit rowdy; just not cricket, when a gentle clap is acceptable.  I doubt I'll get used to this.

Thursday, 10 May 2012

It's May

Peace, quiet and rest is her message,
Tired scenery heeds her call;
This gracious lady of Autumn,
Loveliest season of all.
Pamela Summers

Still no sign of my camera.  It's with a spiral notepad somewhere. Meantime, I've borrowed a DLSR monolith from the office to play with and have no idea what ISO or half the other functions mean.  Also can't seem to download them to the computer.  I'm thinking a replacement Mother's Day camera might be called for. Is that excessive?  It's either that or a non-stick fry pan and I know which I'd prefer.  (However, I have had a sneak peak of some "vouchers" from the children for hugs, back tickles and promises to do odd jobs 'round the house.  What more really could a mother ask for?)    



Photo: Australian Institute of Sport, Canberra.  "Swimming Islands" and "Waiting Poolside".  By me on iphone with Instagram.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

Solitude




Ode on Solitude
~ Alexander Pope
 
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
 In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
 In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
 Tell where I lye.
***
The children have gone off on holiday with their grandparents.  It's strangely quiet without them and there's less structured activity to pad out the days.  It's the catering that I notice the most.  Dinner and washing-up for two.  Cut lunches for two or not at all. Bliss.  No mess on the floor.  No crazy bedtime routine.  No... little faces, little conversations, little books and learning.  No little hugs.  I can't imagine what it will be like when they have grown and gone away.  It's nice for a week but not for an endless period, as it will surely be one day.    Empty children's bedrooms are the saddest places, I think.


Monday, 16 April 2012

Fan mail



“Seventeen, eh!" said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred.
"Six years to the day we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?"
"Vaguely," said Harry, grinning up at him. "Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?"
"I forge’ the details," Hagrid chortled.”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows


“A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley...He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!”

 ― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

Tuesday, 10 April 2012

Batement Tendu


Childhood

~ George William Russell

HOW I could see through and through you!
So unconscious, tender, kind,
More than ever was known to you
Of the pure ways of your mind.

We who long to rest from strife
Labour sternly as a duty;
But a magic in your life
Charms, unknowing of its beauty.

We are pools whose depths are told;
You are like a mystic fountain,
Issuing ever pure and cold
From the hollows of the mountain.

We are men by anguish taught
To distinguish false from true;
Higher wisdom we have not;
But a joy within guides you.

***

Beautiful end of term open session at ballet this afternoon.  A room full of little girls in lavender, alternately graceful and squirming.    At seven years of age, they are starting 'intensive training' with classic routines at the barre and on the floor.  It's hardly the Kirov, but so sweet to see my girl point her toes perfectly and step out on long, lean but muscular legs.  She can tie a mean bun all by herself in the back of the car too.

Bravo.  Encore!

Sunday, 8 April 2012


Rainbow steps


Rainbow toes for Annie.  

A wander around the Australian Institute of Sport Swim School.

Thinking about life. 

One step at a time.










Reflecting about what is important. 
Decisions.  Hopes.
Childhood.  Aging. 
Constancy.  Change.
Self.  Others.  Friends. Strangers.

Lost camera, lost time

In Childhood
~ Kimiko Hahn

things don't die or remain damaged
but return: stumps grow back hands,
a head reconnects to a neck,
a whole corpse rises blushing and newly elastic.
Later this vision is not True:
the grandmother remains dead
not hibernating in a wolf's belly.
Or the blue parakeet does not return
from the little grave in the fern garden
though one may wake in the morning
thinking mother's call is the bird.
Or maybe the bird is with grandmother
inside light. Or grandmother was the bird
and is now the dog
gnawing on the chair leg.
Where do the gone things go
when the child is old enough
to walk herself to school,
her playmates already
pumping so high the swing hiccups?

***

I seem to have lost my camera and have lost my sense of equilibrium with it.  I've had to use an iphone and Charly's little junior Kodak number to capture the moments, and there have been plenty of memorable and beautiful ones over the past few weeks.  The autumn tones in Canberra's old streets, merriment in the backyard over the Easter break and abundant other daily vignettes reminding me that childhood is fleeting. Clothes have become outgrown and conversations more mature.  Decisons about high school loom.  I want to capture every second before it disappears.  Oh, where is Peter Pan?

Oh, where is my Canon Ixus?

Thursday, 29 March 2012

Gratitude

Concert Party (Egyptian Base Camp)
-- Siegfried Sassoon


They are gathering round....
Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,
Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound—
The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum...
Drawn by a lamp, they come
Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.

O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land,
You warbling ladies in white.
Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces,
This wall of faces risen out of the night,
These eyes that keep their memories of the places
So long beyond their sight.

Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown
Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale,
He rattles the keys ... some actor-bloke from town...
God send you home; and then A long, long trail;
I hear you calling me; and Dixieland....


Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one
We hear them, drink them; till the concert’s done.
Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.
Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.

***

Still dashing around not getting anywhere fast.  Right from the word go in the morning the race is on.  Trudging over hill and dale in a most undignified fashion to walk to work from a distant car park.  I found a raised mound over a gully/drain to teeter over instead of the usual hazardous uneven tussocks of grass.  I'm forging my own goat track.  It's a twice daily adventure.  I hum as I walk.  Those old piano medleys glide about in my head.  I suspect this derelict public site will be ripe for development one day and Canberra's skyline will become a dense thicket of highrise buildings.  I should enjoy it while it lasts. The children's piano tunes will also be a distant memory one day too.  So while I grumble, I also pause in gratitude. 


Photo. St John's Anglican Church, Reid, Canberra, Australia.  By me.

Wednesday, 28 March 2012

A Fine View

A few tin strips of fleecy cloud lies long
And motionless above the eastern steeps,
Like shreds of silver lace: till suddenly,
Out from the flushing centre to the ends
On either hand, their lustrous layers become
Dipt in all crimson streaked with pink and gold;
And then, at last, are edged as with a band
Of crystal fire.

 ~ Charles Harpur, Dawn and Sunrise in the Snowy Mountains ~

***

My latest hobby is collecting library fines.  We seem to live among a pile of borrowed books and audio books with no idea when they fall due.  Yesterday in a mad dash to mall while Little Wanna's ballet lesson was in progress, we bought a few new books including yet more Lego collector series and The BFG by Roald Dahl. So now we have our noses in brand spanking new books while time is ticking on the borrowed ones. 

I love putting on the squish-diddly voice of the BFG.  But I was beginning to think he wasn't suitable fare for a bedtime story with his imposing height, scary old face and big ears. He comes across as a formidable figure in the first two chapters. Thankfully, as it transpires, he doesn't eat people.  Not like library officials (nah, kidding). 

On our regular trip cross suburbs, we rise and descend over Hindmarsh Drive with astounding views of the Brindabella Mountains in the distance.  It really makes me gasp sometimes and forget all the outstanding fines and hundred-and-one other tasks awaiting me at home and in the office.  It's one of Canberra's redeeming features ... in the absence of a beach.   Mr Harpur has captured the magic accurately in his ode to a sunset over the Snowies.

Tuesday, 27 March 2012

Renaissance Family


The Strange Music
G. K. Chesterton
 
 
Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack,
But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back,
Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret,
Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it yet.

In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e'er let fall,
In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all;
Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame,
Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow's name.

Not as mine, my soul's annointed, not as mine the rude and light
Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight;
Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar,
Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.

But on this, God's harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once,
Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce.
But I will not fear to match them-no, by God, I will not fear,
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.

***


Piano practice is coming along quite nicely. A few rondos rattle around in my head all day. I hum some Edna Mae* drills while buzzing about the kitchen. One of the sweetest sounds on earth is that of your child playing a musical instrument I reckon.  Even the simplest of tunes played faultingly makes me beam with pride. The neighbours may not agree, but to me it is a joyful noise.  With the exception of 'The Entertainer' which is cringe-worthy and so not in keeping with our Renaissance family ideals.  How did that get on the program?

Image 1: Madonna and Child with saints and donors by Gerolamo Giovenone, 1527.
From the Italian Renaissance exhibition at the National Gallery of Australia, Canberra.

Image 2: Edna Mae Burnam* (1907-2007) Dozen a Day series for piano.

Tuesday, 20 March 2012

Linotype Machines


"Linotype: The Film" is a feature-length documentary centered around the linotype type printing machine. It tells the story of people connected to the Linotype and describes its impact on the world.   My dad was a linotype operator.  He started his apprenticeship at the local regional newspaper and eventually ran his own printing business churning out race books, wedding invitations and commercial stationary in the days before letterpress was fashionable.  


I spent many a Saturday down at the shop decorating the display counter, making note pads and hanging out at the second-hand bookshop across the road.  So I have fond and sentimental memories of the linotype machine.  The smell of ink and the piston-like sound of its movement.  I have my name and address in linotype metal made by my father. Special. 

Having it all plus the laundry


Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone,
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own.

***

Here I am, emerging from that strange other world which revolves mechanically around cut lunches, soaking socks, supervised music lessons (I use that term loosely, as I listen and shout encouragement from another room while stirring white sauce), Year Two Home Readers, water balloon games, unwrapped birthday presents, wiped food spills and overdue library books.  That is just my spare time. The bulk of the day is spent in the Big Open Plan Office reading and writing stuff of serious bureaucratic importance.  In addition to which, my work is entirely conducted in front of a computer screen.  In the remaining shreds of time at the day's end, therefore, I have hardly the energy to sit in front of computer even for leisure.  So this space if often neglected.

Lots of other women in this city juggle making or administering public policy with changing the sheets and pressing school uniforms. Most of my friends and colleagues are on the same mouse wheel. Sometimes I wonder if the hard-fought-for gains of the feminist movement weren't a little skewed.  It takes an exceptional person and lots of outsourcing of domestic tasks to keep a family afloat with two parents working outside the home.  Plus good parking or a fast commuter system.  I don't think you can really 'have it all'.  But the childcare industry, and a fear of not being able to exercise choice over essential items like health and education, creates an environment where we think we can, and possibly should 'have it all'. 

I read a ministerial press release today about measures to increase the standards of childcare in Australia.  It was citing the introduction of improved carer-to-child ratios and enhanced minimum training for childcare workers as huge advancements.  Indeed they may be.  But a small quiet voice in my head still thought that the care of children is best undertaken by a parent at home for the bulk of the time and that we have created an artificial industry out of Children's Services.   This is an issue I wrestle with daily. 

What do I tell my daughters and son as they work out their own careers? Am I doing the right thing? Is this a good example? Will I look back with regret at my efforts to 'have it all'?





Verse: Adam Lindsay Gordon, Ye Wearie Wayfarer
Images: Single quilt covers.  Laundry.

Wednesday, 7 March 2012

Henry King WHO CHEWED BITS OF STRINGS, AND WAS EARLY CUT OFF IN DREADFUL AGONIES

By Hilaire Belloc

THE Chief Defect of Henry King
Was chewing little bits of String.
At last he swallowed some which tied
Itself in ugly Knots inside.
Physicians of the Utmost Fame
Were called at once; but when they came
They answered, as they took their Fees,
'There is no Cure for this Disease.
Henry will very soon be dead.'
His parents stood about his Bed
Lamenting his Untimely Death,
When Henry, with his Latest Breath,
Cried 'Oh, my Friends, be warned by me,
That Breakfast, Dinner, Lunch, and Tea
Are all the Human Frame requires...'
With that, the Wretched Child expires.

***

No time for photos.  Busy as.  The eldest is at school camp.  In the wet and wind.  I'm indulging in some separation anxiety thinking of mud slides, treacherous seas and group tomfoolery.   That is when I'm not being driven into the ground with catering for the remaining crowd.  We got by with Steggles chicken fillets and steamed vegies tonight.  Somebody smuggled the bottle of BBQ sauce to the table.  The feta cheese in the home-made spinach pie did not go down well with the junior brigade.  Little S. was visiting and declared that she only ate peas with mint jelly and roasted carrots.  They're a tougher lot than those Masterchef judges.  Then the dastardly routine will all roll around again tomorrow.  I hope there's bread in the freezer.

Monday, 5 March 2012

Dinner Dealbreakers

When I see in a recipe with:

goat's cheese
440 grams of frozen raspberries (500 gram packs)
quinoa
muscovado sugar
sour cream
polenta
200 mls of white wine
chopped mint
rice flour

***
However, I can pull any number of meals together blindfolded with:

tuna in olive oil
tomato paste
mixed Italian dried herbs
dried yeast
frozen peas
balsamic vinegar
thickened cream
eggs
strawberries
rosemary
frozen spinach
oats.

***

It is amazing how I can stock the fridge drawers with a bag of limes and have to hand a tub of fresh ricotta cheese, and not find a suitable recipe using these items.  Then, just when I don't have these items in stock or they have turned rancid waiting,  I'll find a recipe for something perfect requiring the juice of one lime and 200 grams of ricotta.  Meal planning is not my forte.

A platter of dip and crackers and carrot sticks and tortilla 'pizzas' are not to be sniffed at for a quick dinner when you get home after six.   But having got the food to the table, it's as much effort again to have it consumed. Does anyone else's meals take five minutes to prepare but (seemingly) five hours to consume?  Ours go on and on, and on and on ... 

Thursday, 1 March 2012

Fancy that




Peace, quiet and rest is her message,
Tired scenery heeds her call;
This gracious lady of Autumn,
Loveliest season of all.


Pamela Summers

***


My latest online obsession is TheFancy.Com. It's been suggested it will be a strong rival to Pinterest and appeal more to men.  I do prefer its unfussy look. 


My 11 yo thinks it pretty cool too. She shares my love of images although her focus is on photograghs of rad swimming pools, miniature terriers and lego constructions, and the thrill of sharing it with girl friends on the ipod.  She's enjoying a far richer slide-show before her eyes than the black and white world of my childhood.


Didn't Autumn come around quickly? I could do with that stamp.  This year has me flummoxed.  No stable work routine.  Home activities all over the place.  Still no decision on the blinds.


Image: Office Speak Rotating Stamp
Quote: On my desk calendar 2 March 2012

Wednesday, 29 February 2012

A Few Rules for Beginners
by Katherine Mansfield

Babies must not eat the coal
And they must not make grimaces,
Nor in party dresses roll
And must never black their faces.

They must learn that pointing's rude,
They must sit quite still at table,
And must always eat the food
Put before them--if they're able.

If they fall, they must not cry,
Though it's known how painful this is;
No--there's always Mother by
Who will comfort them with kisses.







***

Lesson Number One: These little fellows make changing the sheets a trial.  So I've decreed that henceforth no more soft toys shall be brought into this house.  Enough is enough.  No matter how adorable.  We cannot adopt one more free-loader.   (D'ya hear Daddy?)  Space is at a premium.  Once, it was all Beanie Bears.  Now the lastest obsession is with The Littlest Pet Shop creatures.  One little doggie crept home with us from the Royal Agricultural Show.   He has scored pride of place on the pillow but will no doubt be de-throned in favour of a distant cousin, also made in China as the weeks and months go by.  Affections are fickle when it comes to plush companions.

It's snuggle weather here with record-breaking rain.  The dams are bursting, sports grounds closed, swimming carnivals cancelled and that twice-daily cross-country walk to the office results in sodden trouser legs, if I'm not careful.  

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Now and Then

As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.

Robert Louis Stevenson

***

So true, my  precious little ones.  The days are long but the years are short.  We watched some of the SBS program, Who Do You Think You Are, tonight.  It's become a bit of a favourite in our house when we manage to catch it. My, what facinating stories they unearth and how it affects people to learn about the struggles of their forebears. Tears well up as the subjects are reconciled with the past and the jigsaw puzzle pieces of their heritage connect.  Some tough lives has been lived. Don't I know this more than most coming from tough Anglo-German-Swedish migrant stock. It taken many generations for my lineage to be able experience the opportunities my children currently enjoy. It's really a gift to know this.  I reflect on it often.