There’s a Hippopotamus on my Roof eating Cake

June 17, 2013 By in Laugh, Live, Write 21 Comments

Anyone who knows this book knows the opening line.

Our roof leaks.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

You know the one?

I have a cake eating hippo that only I can see, just like Hazel Edwards. The hippo first appeared on my roof in 2004. He must have been a lot more heavily built back then, because he took the whole ceiling out during a storm. Too much cake, perhaps.

The men with the ladders came. Bang, bang, bang. No more drips.

Then, in 2009, he took it a step further. The drip became a stream and the steam became a tributary and whilst I was at work, he soaked my lovely couch and aubusson cushions. So much water passed through the couch that there was a puddle left underneath on the floor boards. My couch became a soggy, hippo soaked mess.

We have hippo insurance, so – and thanks to the hippo-  we had the ceiling rebuilt, the roof replaced and went on to later sell the house.  The men with the ladders came again. Bang, bang, bang. No more drips.

Then, he went away for a while.  7  years, to be exact.

We thought he had gone, that hippo. Back to the wild, to gallivant in hippo land, flirt with hippo ladies, wallow awhile and all that.

Nary even a postcard.

He came back several nights ago.

Possibly thanks to Google  maps, that hippo he found our new address and settled back into the roof space.

Just like he’d done before.

I have no problem with that hippo, or his cake. But I do take great umbrage at his antics that lead to the drip.

Especially when the drip is in my new walk in robe and right above the hanging space.

It’s time to call in the big guns.

 

The men with the ladder came again late today. Bang, bang, bang. No more drips. They didn’t see my hippopotamus.  But he’ll be back, I know he will. And then I can say, there’s a hippopotamus on my roof eating cake. Again. Maybe he should start eating fish cakes instead.

hippo-onroof-med

 

(For anyone not familiar with the eating cake books, feel free to take a look here)

Garden Share Collective ~ Post 1 ~ Confession Time

June 3, 2013 By in Cook, Live, Love Tags: , 7 Comments

This is a post written in shame.

Yes, shame.

I could blame it on post-hospital recuperation. I could add the cold weather, the frosty snap, the terrorist chickens. But the upshot is – I just got busy, and time poor, and it’s taken Lizzie’s Garden Share Collective series to guilt me into ‘fessing up and sharing my woeful tale.

This is the tale of what once was a thriving backyard garden, brimming with vegetables, herbs, citrus, spices and more.

Now, as I do the walk of shame, armed with camera, I introduce you to my festering weed plot and get it all out there.

‘Cos it’s pretty woeful.

Some things are not doing too badly.

IMG_2071My lillypilli looks deceptively green, and with fruit. The reality is, there’s about 7 fruits on the old girl, not even enough to add to a dish. The birds are feasting. IMG_2063The mango tree has had a strong Winter prune and is greening up nicely. I may even have a few mangoes come summer.

But the reality is here, in my coastal 1/4 acre, everything else is either woody, dead, bug ridden, chewed, moth eaten, stalky, bolted, shot or ready to be put out of it’s misery. IMG_2069My herbs are in planters. They are usually lush and green and loaded with lavish leaves. Here you can see the truth: Stalky Thai Basil, half dead curly leaf parsley, woody Thyme, sulky Sage. IMG_2058Even the Rosemary, (which does better in the ground, I know, but you’ll understand it’s pottedness in a moment) is forlorn. And I have no idea why there is stalky looking cherry tomato remains in the forefront planter – it used to hold French Tarragon :(

IMG_2070Even the lemongrass has dried out, the once lush stems now probably more suited to kindling.  IMG_2067I can blame these girls for some of it. By the time I have fenced off plots and pots with enough wire to keep out the Walking Dead, I need a lock picker and  wire cutters just to go out and gather some goodness.

But I know that’s not really why they are in such neglected sorrow.

I’ve been lazy. IMG_2056Look at these poor strawberries.

I mean really. What hope do they have of producing decent fruit? IMG_2055

And this Basil. More wood than a forest, more flowers than a florist.

I suck. IMG_2062

My Kaffir lime has bugs in the leaves.  It seems the fruit loves neglect – it fruits constantly – the knobby, nubbly fruit full of tartness. Apparently it’s hard to get a Kaffir to fruit. I have the answer. Ignore it :(

Under the Kaffir grows spring onions, chives and garlic. I didn’t photograph them because the terrorist chickens have been sun bathing in them.

IMG_2061The chickens smell great.

Pre-basted, even.

Given the state of the garden, they may just have to watch their step… IMG_2060

This is an eggplant. It’s in it’s 3rd year. It should have been replaced after it’s second season. My husband was so embarrassed that I was including this photo, it has now mysteriously disappeared and just the empty plot remains. IMG_2057

This is the small plot. It’s current purpose, apparently, is to provide a secondary bathing area for the terrorist chickens, which, as you can see, is proving very successful.   I don’t even know what that is, growing in the forefront. But it’s stubborn enough to withstand chicken bathing and mustn’t taste good, because it’s still there.

You will notice it’s behind the wire fortress.

Sigh.

Yes.IMG_2054

My Bay tree has bugs.  And scale. And something else, I think. IMG_2053

And the grasshoppers are loving it.

I so have some un-pictured goodies. The curry plant is doing great things,The lemon, orange and lime tree are starting to get ‘legs’ – they are only a year or so old. We planted these citrus trees IN the chook run. There’s irony in there, somewhere. They thrive.

The chickens ate the birds eye chillis. They gobbled the gooseberry bush, and discovered that carrots, peas, corn and rhubarb were all to their palate.

IMG_2052I wanted to leave this post on a up-note.

So – here’s a mandarin.

Wish I could say I grew it.

It comes from over the neighbour’s fence.

This is the first post in a series of ” The Garden Share Collective” — a web hop about the veggies, hers and edibles we grow. On the first Monday of each month I’ll be sharing my  failures and successes in the garden, as part of a community designed to help problem solve and gain motivation to growing clean food organically and sustainably.

Thanks to Lizzie, from Strayed from the Table, who founded this idea.

Check back next month to see how the garden – and the terrorist chickens – have progressed over the first cold Winter month.

Best Served Cold

May 30, 2013 By in Read, Write Tags: , , , 13 Comments

Books make it seem surreal, I think. I mean really, how often do wronged wives behead their lovers – or cut the brake line of the family car?  Honestly.  

No, in real life that’s not the case. If it were, prison cells would be full of women who had grounds for hysteric actions; lawyers would be making a fortune whilst citing moon cycles and hormone studies as defense suits.

In real life, revenge has to be something…. subtle.

Spiteful, pointed… poking a stick in the eye without anyone else really seeing it; know what I mean?

Not that I would ever consider carrying out a truly vengeful act. I just don’t have the stomach for it.

I’ll just take another sip of my tea. Calm down a bit more. Really, I must be quite rational here. After all, 10 years of marriage is not to be taken lightly, and I do have to think of my social standing. 10 years with this miserable stinking bastard who thinks its fine to dilly dally with his floozies… but…. I digress.

Sorry. I should be thinking calm thoughts. Yoga was good for that – all that standing on my head and CHI and blood flow and stuff. And it was just terrible when our Yogi slipped down the stairs after class that day – and just steps in front of us all, too! I wasn’t able to run down and help her as fast as the others, even though I was the closest – it must have been that extra 15 pounds she said I was carrying. Slowed me down a bit I guess. I hear the neck brace comes off in a few weeks and they expect she’ll be walking again come November. Good news. 

Ohhmmmm…..     There, that’s better. I feel much calmer now. Meditation is good for the soul.

You know me. Takes quite a bit to rile me up or get me going. And I always bounce back from anything untoward with a smile on my face. So while terrible things seem to happen to people around me, I remain untouched. Charmed, some say. Lucky. Perhaps so. I just like to think I am nice. Noble, you know.

I would never do anything nasty. Even when Sylvia from work stole my submission for the council application and put it to the manager in her own name. Of course I was peeved, but really, it wasn’t worth getting my knickers in a twist about. Funny, though, how she became so ill with the aaahhh…runs… for days afterwards and was not able to attend the interview for the position. Imagine 3 days of stomach cramps out of the blue, just like that! Right about the time the syrup of Ipecac went missing from the first aid supplies too. Certainly made me chuckle! I do hope she liked the lamb stew I sent over to help her recover and gather some nutrients again. I do like to help.

Oh, and then poor Lydia. Remember her? At the Christmas party, too!  In her pretty red dress and sparkly earrings, she was the centre of attention, and my, didn’t I make sure that told her how gorgeous she looked in those oh-so-high heels! Why, I even offered to hold her purse and fur coat while she went to the ladies room. Well, it wasn’t really a room, was it? One of those portable toilet room cubicle things they had installed on the green especially for our outdoor party. Of course, when the cubicle tipped over everyone came rushing to help – and wasn’t I the one who took her home, paid the cab fare and all?  Seeing her leave through the middle of the fancy white gazebo all covered in excrement in front of 200 people is bad enough – paying the cab fare was the least I could do.

I am nice like that.

And of course, there was Jackson. He never did find out who poured milk through the open sunroof of his sports car while he was on his overseas trip, did he? Mind you, it was helpful to me because I did not have to listen to those damn wheels spinning at 4am every goddamned day as he sped off to his job at the bakery. Apparently they could not remove the smell at all. Bugger that his insurance had lapsed. He didn’t even notice the renewal didn’t arrive in his mailbox - yet the company representative says they posted the renewal at the same time they do every year. Mind you, he does not seem to mind catching the bus too much – and I even offered to feed his cat every afternoon for him. I mean, a 2 hour commute twice a day does make the working day long. Nice cat, and now I can lock her inside between feeds I don’t even have to worry about those nasty little gifts she would leave on the front mat from time to time. See? Nice person.That’s me.

But husbands… husbands who cheat. Maybe they do deserve a little taste of their own medicine.

What do you think? After this nice cup of tea is downed, I am thinking I may have to indulge in a little revenge, just this once…

 

(Edit:- after an email enquiring as to my “okayness”, I must emphasise that this post is fiction. Just in case you are thinking that perhaps I may need some psychiatric assessment….or something…. :)      )

Jude Blereau ~ Date & Ginger Oat Cookies

May 20, 2013 By in Cook Tags: , , , , 15 Comments

If you are even remotely interested in the wholefood movement, you will know of Jude Blereau.

IMG_1998

Jude is an author, food coach, cooking teacher and ‘real food’ activist. She’s been involved with the organic and wholefoods industry for more than 18 years and is a passionate advocate for sustainable farming practices. Jude is a member of Chefs Collaborative – a network  of chefs, cooks and restaurateurs working together to promote sustainable farming, fishing, humane animal husbandry and local artisanal cuisine.  She is also an ambassador for Thermomix.  As you can see, Jude is one busy lady.

I was lucky enough to be invited  to see Jude as part of her current Australian tour, and to add additional interest to the event (as if I needed any) this one night only was aimed at Thermomix owners. Double bonus.

Jude’s food philosophy  is all about nutrient dense, tasty food that’s realistic in a home kitchen.  Her passion for whole foods and natural, realistic approach was evident right from the onset.  And I was surprised and pleased to discover that we trained at the same Teacher’s training college in WA, many years ago. Yes, Jude was a kindergarten teacher too.

Jude’s book “Wholefood”, contains this recipe. Whilst the original is not TM based, I was inspired by Jude to adapt. I hope you enjoy.

Ginger Oat Cookies 

slightly adapted from Jude Blereau’s “Wholefood” book.

  • 100g dried dates
  • 390g oats
  • 60g pecans or walnuts
  • 110g glacé (crystalized) ginger (Buderim)
  • 125g Macadamia oil
  • 125g honey
  • 2 eggs

Prehaet the oven to 180c and line 2 flat sheet baking trays.

  • Place the dates in the TM bowl and add 60ml warm water. Stir on reverse, 5mins, temp 100
  • Add ginger. Stir on reverse, 5mins, temp 100 – you may have to add a little more water depending on your dates. You want to have a smooth date paste and small ginger chunks.
  • Add nuts. Turbo 2 or 3 times.
  • Add oats, eggs, oil and honey (in that order) and mix on knead, 3 mins to make a soft, well combined dough.
  • Roll into large golf ball sized balls and space out onto trays. Flatten balls to make 4cm x 1cm disks.
  • Bake fr 10 – 15 mins until soft golden brown. Allow to cool on the trays.

The nuts and fruits are interchangable. Pistachio and cranberry is very nice, dried apricots and brazil nuts are wonderful. Keep your ginger to make sure the cookies are always amaze-zing!

For Judes’ tour dates, pop over to Jude’s website.

Losing my Best Friend

May 9, 2013 By in Love, Published Pieces, Write Tags: , , , 17 Comments

Dear friend,

I don’t know why you left me. I don’t know what happened that turned you away.

I don’t know the thought processes that went in to making the decision you made.

I don’t know if you agonized, rationaled, or seesawed with emotion, or if you simply said ‘over’.

I don’t know if you were led, deceived or misinformed. I don’t know if there were preceding events, or if I simply failed in meeting your expectations.  I don’t know if I let you down.

I simply don’t know.

I do know we were friends – closer than sisters – for over 30 years.

And then we weren’t.

From the age of 6 and 8, respectively, you and I, we were almost inseparable. From the day your brother knocked over our back fence so we could talk without peering through the pickets, we were peers. We danced. We laughed. We kissed boys. We sang to the same bands, our hairbrushes synchronised with our hotpants as we emulated Agneta and Annifrid,  Dancing Queens.

I knew when you first had a boy friend. I knew when you first did it, and was both at once startled and stimulated when you did it again. I mopped up the pieces when he broke your heart.  You cried, I cried, then we went to see Grease and ate malteasers and ice cream.

You taught me to shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows and inhale without coughing. I taught you how to do your hair so it covered your ears.

I was there when you first shoplifted. You were there when I had my first period. The rites of passage, we shared together, first you, then me, but always together.  I was there when your sister hit you. You were there when my dad hit me. I yelled at your sister. You yelled at my dad. Together we vowed – no one would hit us when we were adults. No one.

We were so brave.

I do know the exact moment when I realised that you had gone.

It was there, in the funeral home.

The first time we had been in the same place, at the same time, for over a decade.  We were there because we had both lost the same somebody. You walked towards me, my arms raised, ready for the warm hug I had missed. Yes, you returned the embrace – but it was cool, perfunctory, brief.

It confused me.

It was like being hit.

I looked for solace in your eyes, but your eyes didn’t want to look into mine. They darted away of their own accord and busied themselves watching nearby relatives.

I could have asked.

You could have told.

But neither one of us were brave.

I’d been gone for a long time. 15 years goes by so quickly when life gets in the way. You had married again, your girls – the ones that learned to walk in my house -  are now fully grown, beautiful women.  I  had a child, creating life at around the same time as you were setting teenagers off to find their own wings.

I always was that few steps behind you.

I just didn’t realise the gap had grown so damn wide.

That was three years ago, friend. It’s taken me this long to write you this letter. I didn’t know the words. I didn’t understand the feelings. I guess, also, I hoped that if I let it be, it wouldn’t be broken.

But it is.

I don’t know how to fix it.

But I do know one thing.

I miss you.

x

(edit: Published iviilage May 2013)

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