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)

Or this?

You’d be forgiven if you think to yourself, this guy’s simply doing his delivery run. And he might very well be, too.  But this truck was parked,  engine off, locked, driver absent.

The thing that strikes me, is that this significantly branded truck – and this is one of the world’s most globally recognised colour/logo combinations – not only obstructed two lanes of passing traffic and blocked in some poor shopper’s car, but that he taken up no less than three – yes, 3 – designated disabled parking bays. And obscured the entry to the disabled/elderly access ramp.

So what? He’s busy, right? He’ll only be a minute?

It’s no excuse, but hey – we’re used to seeing that all the time with delivery runs, aren’t we?  And we’re OK with that. We’re Aussies. She’ll be right, mate.

We shouldn’t be.

The Coca-Cola work rights policy says:

“The Company…. has along-standing … intolerance of discrimination. We are dedicated to … workplaces that are free from discrimination … on the basis of race, sex, color, national or social origin, religion, age, disability, sexual orientation, political opinion or any other status protected by applicable law…”*
Their catch phrase? Live Positively.

When a Coke truck – or any delivery truck – parks over a disabled bay, it’s not only disrespectful, it’s unlawful.

I posted these images to Coca-Cola Amatil when I took them, several weeks back. They haven’t responded to me… yet. I’d love to hear what they think. I’d love to hear what you think, too.

Is this OK?

*Read in full, here

A chat about where they’ve been, what they saw, what they did.

Since they get trotted out for different events – usually food related – I imagine my garments to have gleaned quite  the  repertoire for the gastronomic.  And afterwards, post soiree, they are returned to the robe, resplendent with tales of their travels.

To be what they are.

Totally uncultured gossips.

I imagine them, whispering conspiratorially.

“Where have you been? What did you do?
Oh my gosh did you? And she was there too?
She wore you with what? Wow, you get out a lot!
She never wears me there, she thinks I’m too hot.

Did you taxi or bus? Or did you take the train?
Did you see poor Laboutin – she left his heel in the drain.
I see you tried the the crab cakes… there’s a bit on your neck.
Oh, it’s seared chicken livers, with cream sauce and Triple Sec?

Last time we went out, we took black wool pants
they got sat on all night, they had not a chance
the button – popped -  blame Fromager d’Affinois
it had nothing to do with dancing on the bar!

Oh -Red dress is sulking. She doesn’t get out.
and poor linen jacket copped a greased  Brussels sprout-
She must love you a lot -  you got the padded hanger.
They’re usually reserved for items of glamour...”

And so it goes.

More often than not, it takes me to the next morning to return my clothes to the robe.

There are shoes to be shelved, underwear to toss to the basket. The discarded, unworn reject pile to be mollified and maintained.

And as I hang, fold and slide, I make sure sure to give a little smooth to the errant sleeve or collar.  Slip them back to their rightful place in queue of conspiracy, ready for their little chats.

As I turn away, from the corner of my eye,  I spy my make up brushes peeping out from my cosmetic case. And I wonder…

Why a cow? Well, owning a cow means one can legally use raw milk for consumption or in cooking, or if you’re feeling luxurious enough – in  a bath.

Well, let me tell you the milk I get from the cow goes straight into my belly.

But just in case you think I have a cow stashed away in my seaside abode, let me set you straight. Delores the cow is safely housed a long way from here,  on a small 10 acre farm called Lantanaland near Yatala in the hinterlands of QLD’s Gold Coast.  And she’s cared for very, very well. And I only own a part of her.

Let me introduce you to my friend, John Beesley.

John, ‘Beeso’ and his wife Vanessa have big dreams for their little farm.  Slowly expanding (and that includes their new little man, Curtis), they have a dream to open a cooking school and help others learn how to become as self sustainable as possible, through growing their own food including fruit, vegetables and even meats and poultry. John has strong ties to his patch, and is working hard to make a difference in his own small way, with the determination to show young Curtis’s generation a completely different way to survive.

One of John’s many talents, is that he hand milks his ‘girls’ and makes his own raw milk cheeses.

How John makes his Haloumi (and how you can, too).

Now, John really needs feed for his cows. Good, organic cows love fresh produce, and need more than just grass to survive. What they really love is a good bit of  fruit and veggie scraps, which are not as easy to come by as people think. These days large grocery chains dispose of wasted fruit and veg in great volumes. These dispersals are ideal cow feed supplements.

If you know anyone who can help John (or Delores!) with a regular supply of fruit and vegetable scraps, let me know – or pop by and visit him yourself. You can find him on his blog Lantanaland or on twitter: @Beeso. You’ll want to spend a whole lot more time in Lantanaland.

But hands off Delores – she’s spoken for.

*

… and after a few stops and some reminiscing, I arrive at my childhood home.

The road, once a volleyball court, cricket pitch and dance floor to our ABBA routines, has become a 4 lane highway.

Hubby parks in a side street and master 10 and I meander through the parkland toward my childhood home. All I want, I tell him, is to take a photograph.

We stand out the front, and I take in the solemn red bricks, the chimney, the steep pitched roof. It seems only yesterday I was cocooned by these walls, waiting to burst free.

I share stories about the front garden, the verandah, the rose garden planted by my grandmother. I tell of how I slipped down the steps when the shiny silver wedding car arrived to take me to my future. Of how I would skip down the driveway balancing knucklebones on the back of my hand.  Or how I would sit, waiting for the postman, hoping for a letter that would give hope to a gloomy girl’s growth.

As we speak, a woman emerges  through the same deep red wooden door that I used in my final escape.  She smiles, says hello, and immediately I feel obliged to explain to her that this was my family home, and I was taking a quick snap, so sorry to bother you.

She invites me in. At first, I am a little uncertain. After all, this home does not hold the happiest of memories, and some things are better left in the past. But then again, as my father has passed and I am dealing with demons, perhaps a final goodbye would not be so bad. Probably quite easy. After all, it’s only bricks and mortar, right?

So I smile, introduce myself properly, thank her for her graciousness, and enter my old home. Taking a deep breath I slip off my shoes to feel the polished boards beneath my toes. The familiar squeak of flesh on wood takes me back to a time long past. This is OK, actually. Quite fine and dandy. It strikes me how this house, built in the 30′s by my grandfather’s hand, has barely changed. The same stunning stained glass in the windows, the same cherry tinged jarrah finishes. The beautiful fireplaces. The horsehair plaster cornice work and ceiling roses. I have a lump in my throat, as I remember the furniture placed in the lounge room, the bedrooms, the entry way. My old room. Then, a left hand turn, and I face the kitchen.

Wham.

Do you believe in ghosts? In a parallel universe? In a power higher than us mortals, that can conjure hidden memories and recall events that the subconscious mind has deemed forever closed, gone, locked away?

I feel a physical shove from behind. I am catapulted a few steps into my family kitchen. I see my mother, standing at the sink, holding a cream enamelware pot in her had, as she washes in from right to left with warm suds. Above her, a mirror claims the name of the family kitchen. To her right is a counter with overhead cabinets. I see the dishes, the white plates with flowers around the edges, jam jar glasses, white Pyrex casserole dishes. The old cream Telecom dial phone. The chest freezer, the fridge. To her left, a long counter holding a great deal of paraphernalia, dishes, a toaster with drop down sides, a net curtain. On the window ledge, a set of dominoes. Further left, the greenish blue speckled Metters gas stove, the wood stove, the fireplace holding candles, matches, creamy yellow bakelite canisters. An old dresser, cream and yellow. The drawer is open. I see laxettes, bills, matches,  a huge amount of stacked papers spilling out into overflow.

In the middle of the room is a table. It starts as a rectangle, muted pastel shades on top, black edging around. It holds an ashtray made from a flattened beer bottle. It holds a beer glass, a pale blue foam beer bottle holder, a large brown bottle within. And sitting there, right there on a cream and yellow flecked chair is my father.

My dead father.

Only he’s very much alive.

WHAM.

I can HEAR the image shift. With a pop-pop-pop the images shift. My father, dark curly hair, looks at me over his thick tinted glasses. His right leg is slightly tilted under his body on the chair, as he rests half on the tucked leg, half on his posterior. He wears a checked flannelette shirt unbuttoned over a white T shirt. There is a pot on the stove containing mutton and barley. I know it’s there. I can SMELL it.

WHAM.

His hair begins to grey, his face age. Another ashtray appears – a glass dish surrounded by a tyre bearing the word ‘Bridgestone’ in minute letters, overflowing with cigarette butts. Rollies. Packeted. Little orange tubes of poison. Then a pipe. On the stove, another pot appears. It holds greens and vegetable scraps and again, I can SMELL it.

WHAM.

The blue foam bottle holder changes to brown and a plastic foam collar wraps around the bottle. The Metters gas stove transforms into a shelf holding a small upright gas unit. The dresser transforms into a pine louvred double door pantry. The hearth becomes tiled.The clutter grows.

WHAM.

The table begins to round, it morphs to a perfect circle. The chairs become orange, plastic, vinyl. My father’s body begins to stoop, but, goddammit, he is STILL LOOKING AT ME over his glasses. His right eyebrow raises. His mouth opens, missing teeth turn what may have been an acknowledgement into a grimace. His clothes have morphed into cardigan and black track suit pants. He nods, slowly, imperceptibly.

As I take all this in, my mother’s face and body turns toward me as she simultaneously ages, shrugs her shoulders as she looks at me over her left shoulder, and turns back to the sink. Her hair moves from reddish brown curls to reddish flecked grey. Her body rounds, her shoulders drop. She looks defeated, she is telling me without words: this is what I have accepted.

Again, WHAM.

Images, images I don’t want to recall, flash past, almost like a slide projection in front of my eyes. Raised, angry voices. Shouts. Tears. The breaking of china, the slamming of doors, the dull, whumping sound of… I have to close my eyes. I don’t want to see this. I DON’T WANT TO SEE THIS. There is a voice. Gently, firmly, I hear “Open your eyes. The past will not hurt you. You must see this, you must move on.” My eyes open against my will. More flashes, quickly now. Beer bottles stacked up against the back of the shed. A chicken, beheaded, stalking the ground. Parties, people, voices, tears. It’s HOT. The air is thick with emotion, smoke, food smells, and something darker. Something deeper. The need to empty my bladder is pressing. I look back at my father and I meet his eyes. For the first time ever, I hold his gaze and look back at him. I am strong, now. He looks small. He looks away first, but not before he sadly smiles.

Silence.

My eyes focus again. My mother is gone. My father is gone. I see a stranger’s clutter, a foreign table, someone else’s dishes. A startled looking stranger is talking to me, my son is pulling my arm. “Mum. Mum! Are you OK?”

Somehow I finish the tour of the house. I stumble through the bathroom, the laundry, the backyard. I meet her husband,  I manage to coherently mumble a few sentences about the house. I thank them, and turn to leave. I have to walk past the kitchen again. My eyes refuse to look. I burble some thank yous, shake hands. Offer an email address in case they want building history. Stagger down the steps to the street, the street where my 2 year old brother was hit by a car whilst in the care of a much-too-young eight year old me. 

 As I  get back to the car, my knees buckle, my legs give way and I cry. After years and years, I cry. Tears, hot and heavy, sobs escaping, throat hurting, eyes burning, head pounding. I just want to get back to the car.

I am so bewildered, I forget my shoes.

The idea of a celebrity dropping in unannounced sends me into a major spin. I would need a week to get the house in order, lose 5 kilos, have my hair done and try  for a make-over. Especially if it was a celebrity that I have a mild crush on. (Like this guy, for example.)

But when  Shaun Micallef came to my house, I was naked.

In the bathroom.

Wrapped in a towel.

The bathroom down the boys end of the house, not the ensuite off my bedroom.

Mr 13 led him straight to his bedroom and proceeded to show him scouting badges, model cars and train sets. Surprisingly, Shaun Micallef proved to be an ex-boy scout, enthralled with scout badges, blankets and paraphernalia.  Who knew? Jarrod, Toby and Steve were stoked. Not only were there 4 geeks in the house, there was a geek idol. A celebrity geek idol.

And a naked mother in the bathroom.

T took great delight in sticking his head through the door and announcing that “Shaun Micallef is here, didjaknow?”

Horrified that T was now also in the bathroom, giving away my secret lair, I snapped at him to shut the door and go away.  I sat on the loo, and listened as Shaun Micallef was given the grand tour of the house including all things messy by 4 teen geeks. I hoisted the towel and peered at my drying tangled hair while Shaun Micallef sat at the kitchen bench and conversed with 4 teens about trains and other things geeky.

Bravely, I snuck through the hallway to the kitchen nook. I was about to throw caution to the wind and do a bolt for my bedroom behind Shaun Micallef’s back when the alarm went off. Shaun Micallef and 4 teen geeks all looked towards the alarm system just as I emerged. The alarm was jangling , my towel was slipping and 5 sets of male eyes were upon me. Eyes closed and mortified, I steeled myself to be brave. Open my eyes. One, two, three…

Mr 13 turned off the bedside alarm and put down a nice fresh cup of earl grey beside my bed.

“You right there mum? You were making wierd faces in your sleep. Sounded like someone was trying to strangle you! What are you making me for lunch? Can Toby and Jarrod and Steve come over this weekend on the public holiday? Oh, and mum, I have to wear Chinese costume for cultural day….“

This weekend, my house will be spotless, and I will be NOT using the boys bathroom at all.

When Shaun Micallef comes to visit, I want to make sure I am not in the bathroom.

It could be very unpleasant.

It is dark.

It is so very still that the air feels oppressive.  As I get out of bed I notice that my partner does not move. So deep in slumber is he, he could be dead. Unmoving, barely breathing. Only the heat from his body tells me otherwise.

What woke me?

I blink, trying to refocus, encouraging some – any – light from outside into my pupils.

Something heavy is on my legs. The cat.  She, too, is barely moving.

The silence and stillness is eerie.

I raise and walk to the kitchen. I trail my fingertips along the wall as I step, to make sure I do not stumble.

The glow from the intercom illuminates the kitchen, and in the soft neon blueness I see my way to the tap. My favourite blue tumbler is on the sink, waiting.

Greedily, I gulp. So thirsty.

My eyes stray outside the open french doors to the yard.

Barely anything is visible. Still nothing moves. There are no leaves to rustle, no bats to call, no night birds chuffing.

It’s like everything has stopped. Outside my rooms, nothing exists.

Blackness, darkness, stillness, nothing.

I look over to the hound. He too, sleeps the slumber of the almost dead. The tiny rise and fall of his massive black furry chest the only sign his heart beats still.

Too quiet. Too, too quiet. The clock is not ticking – why? The hands tell me it stopped at 2.51. The face tells me nothing.

I drink again, and as I move the glass to the tap to rinse, I hear a soft chink. I run my finger over the lip. I feel the sliver as it enters my finger. Damn. I have chipped it. My favourite glass.

Sucking the blood from my fingers, I pad my way back to my room.

My bedpartner has not moved. The cat has not moved. The clock has not moved. Only I, only I have moved.

I climb back into bed and look around the blackness. It still feels close, cloying, oppressive.

I slide my feet under the cat, pull up the covers and drift back to sleep.

*

The sound of birds awakens me, a sunshine plays on my arms as it sneaks through the window. The smell of hot tea wafts from the kitchen. The cat, performing her daily ablutions, blinks at me from her spot on the sunny windowsill.

As I walk out to the kitchen, I see the bed partner and the hound out by the pool, playing with palm fronds. The door is closed, locked, the key hangs by the window.

My favourite blue tumbler is in the cupboard behind the glass door. Dry, away, home. Perfect.

Out of the corner of my eye  I see the clock – the small hand sweeps a circle, tocking loudly.

I didn’t stop, it tells me.  You did.

Atrial fibrillation (also called AF or a-fib) an abnormal rhythm of the heart. It presents as the fast and chaotic beating of the atrial chambers, causing an irregular heartbeat.

In a-fib, part of the heart (the upper chamber, called the atria) does not work correctly because of abnormal electrical activity. This means that blood is not forcefully moved out of these chambers. The blood that remains in the atria becomes “sluggish” or static, which allows blood clots to form raising the risk of stroke. Atrial fibrillation can be intermittent and stop on its own (paroxysmal), continue for several days and require treatment (persistent), or be present all the time (permanent).

The exact cause of AF is not known.

Some people have no symptoms at all while others have a variety of symptoms.

Mild symptoms include:

• Unpleasant palpitations or irregularity of the heart beat
• Mild chest discomfort (sensation of tightness) or pain
• A sense of the heart racing
• Lightheadedness
• Mild shortness of breath and fatigue that limit the ability to exercise

More severe symptoms include:

• Difficulty breathing
• Shortness of breath with exertion
• Fainting, or near fainting, due to a reduction in blood flow to the brain
• Confusion, due to a reduction in blood supply to the brain
• Chest discomfort
• Fatigue
• Memory loss, inability to recall simple events, words and phrases (including names of objects, people’s names, names of places)

People with AF have an increased risk of stroke as a result of blood clots that can form in the heart. A stroke can occur if a blood clot forms in the left atrium because of sluggish blood flow and a piece of the clot (called an embolus) breaks off. The embolus enters the blood circulation and can block a small blood vessel. If this happens in the brain, a stroke can occur. The embolus may also travel to the eye, kidneys, spine, or important arteries of the arms or legs.

*

AF has had a huge impact on my life, especially in the last 18 months.

For me, nothing is more upsetting than those first moments when I realise and recognise the bang-bang-bang  – like wheel rolling very, very fast,  that starts in my chest and vibrates through my whole body.

Sleep is really elusive for me once I am in AF. Usually, I just try to relax and stay calm. An episode can last from a few hours, to a few days, non stop. My longest episode has been 3 weeks of continuous AF. It nearly sent me to the funny farm. When it goes away, it just stops – like someone turning off a tap. The feeling that comes with this is the best feeling in the world. It’[s like my whole body just feels light and relaxed and normal sinus rhythm prevails once more.

There is no medical evidence of what can trigger and AF episode.

Some people say theirs is set off by  physical overexertion. Others say caffeine, alcohol, and ice-cold drinks can trigger an event. Less common triggers are simple illnesses, such as having a cold, or a viral infection, dehydration, coughing and burping, certain over the counter drugs, laughing.

My personal triggers are alcohol, especially wine, which  really upsets me as I am such a wine lover. Pork can set me off. So can emotional or work-related stress. Lying on my the left side once an episode starts magnifies it. I’ve met people who are set off by a heavy meal, caffeine, MSG, aspartame, and chocolate.

More and more, I have had to turn down or skip out social engagements. I worry that people think I am rude. But honestly – when I am in AF I am no good to anybody. You simply don’t want me around.

You want to know why I don’t drink sometimes? This is why.

You want to know why I may pull out of your Tupperware party? This is why.

not to mention that driving in AF is not a good idea.

This year, I will be having surgery.  Hopefully this will fix my broken heart.

This post is to help you, as my friends, understand what I am dealing with and why I am having surgery. It’s no big deal, I’ll be in and out before you know it.  I’ll let you know when it happens.

Then you can send me wine. And chocolate.

I have a lot of lost time to make up.

Somehow, over the course of Summer, a little bit of something was left at the back of my fridge for a rather long time.

Usually in these instances, the slovenly housewife is alerted to her sluttiness by way of some sort of stench, a subtle suggestion that some sort of stint in housewifely duties is well overdue.

However.

When I did venture into the depths of the bottom shelf, I found a bag.

And in that bag, was bread.

I racked my brain trying to work out when I had last bought supermarket bread.

Looks like new, huh? Still shows a floury crust. Still shows cleanly sliced olives.

And get this – IT DOESN’T FEEL LIKE A BRICK. In fact, it depresses and squishes quite easily beyond that floury crust.

It seems this is the last remains of an olive loaf that I had schlepped home to make emergency  lunches or something.

Back in December.

True – take a look at the date.

And just to prove I am not a faking fibber, Here’s the bread and the label together.

Mmmm yum.

Look at that ingredient list.

And not a trace of mould anywhere.

Magic marvel bread!

Supermarket bread, anyone?

*

I’ve been making my own bread a lot in recent weeks.

I can control what goes into it, and I can guarantee it’s a whole lot less than what seems to appear on that long list of science ingredients.

Of course it only lasts 2 days or so – 3 max – but isn’t that what bread’s supposed to do?

You know – like ‘give us this day our daily bread’ sorta thing.

Daily.

Yeah.

So, here’s my recipe for Basil Cheese Loaf.

My son calls it green cheese bread because I blitz the basil first and the cheese afterwards, which turns the cheese green.

It’s made on spelt, which means most people who can’t eat wheat can eat this, but of course, not good for coeliacs.  I manage it well and I have a wheat intolerance.

I make the dough in my Thermomix, but you can use the old fashioned method just as well, just vary your flour as you feel the dough.

Basil Cheese Loaf

Ingredients:

100g whole grain spelt
420g spelt flour
300g warmed water
2 teaspoons dried yeast
1.5  teaspoons salt
20g macadamia oil
1 cup loose basil leaves
150 grams cheddar or other desired cheese
Basil flower or additional basil leaves for garnish

Method:

Put all basil leaves into the bowl, whiz for 4-5 seconds on sp 6. Tip these out into a separate bowl.

Put all the cheese into the bowl, and blitz on 6 – 8 seconds, speed 8.

Add cheese to basil and reserve 1/4  of the cheese to one side. Scrape out the jug.

Place spelt grains into the bowl and mill for 1 minute on speed 9.

Add the warmed water, followed by the yeast,  salt, oil, flour  bowl and mix for 6 – 8 seconds on speed 6 to combine.

Check the mix – this dough should be slightly sticky, right on that ‘is this too sticky?’ point.

Add the basil cheese mix to the bowl.

Knead for 2 minutes on Interval speed.

Tip the dough into a floured bread tin. For a rustic look, tip onto a floured tray and mould into desired shape using lightly floured hands.I prefer to use a bread tin for this dough as it is quite sticky and as it has not had a separate first rise, it isn’t stretchy yet. Plus, when the cheese is used to top the loaf it oozes down the sides of the loaf and makes a nice parmesan crust….

Allow loaf to rise in a warm position until it’s around double the size.

Take the remaining 1/4 cup cheese and sprinkle over the risen dough.

Place the loaf pan o a lined tray , pop a basil flower or a few leaves on the top, and bake in a hot oven on 200 for 20 minutes, no fan.

At the 20 minute mark, remove loaf from pan and let it bake for another 5 minutes – or until tapping the base gives the ‘hollow’ sound -  on the still hot  lined tray.

When it comes to people singing praises of any type of miracle – let along a wondrous machine -I am a skeptic. Miracle healing, the ability to transcend into meditation, x-ray specs – these things are all out of my realm.

And in regards to kitchen machinery, I already had a good quality blender, food processor and my best friend, a cherry red Kitchen Aid.

“You have to see this, Rhu. Just come and see. It will chop, beat, mix, whip, grind, knead, mince, grate, juice, blend, heat, stir, steam and weigh“.  No mention of meditation. But anyway, I went along to a demonstration and, to be frank, was extremely underwhelmed.  The food was OK, don’t get me wrong.  The risotto was light and fluffy. The sorbet was sweet and smooth. And the bread rolls were lovely and light, and yes, everything was additive free and what a fantastic thing that is for our health. I agree.

“But I can already do these things“, I reasoned. With a knife, a chopping board, a stove, a glass of wine. Give me those tools and I am a happy lady. Throw in some Etta James or Billie Holiday and I can lose myself in as close to transcendental meditation as I find possible. “I like to stir. I like to chop. I like to  crush and mash and smash and slice. I like to sauté, to caramelise, to bake. I find it therapeutic and rewarding. I don’t need a Thermomix to do any of those things.”

And so I stayed happy with my blender, knife and chopping board. And I went along to a number of demonstrations, even had meals prepared for me, by wonderful friends, in their Thermomix.  I remained.

Unswayed.

And then one day, someone said to me “Have you ever seen one used in a commercial kitchen? Have you seen what it can do for cooks“?  So I went along, yet again, armed with my “Oh yes,  how wonderful, but I can already do that, thanks“, spiel… and realised that perhaps, just perhaps, there might be something in this machine for me after all.

Why?

Because this was the first time I had seen a demonstration that wasn’t about why you should buy a Thermomix. It wasn’t about how the Thermi replaces the kitchen. No.  This demonstration was about what a Thermomix can actually do in a kitchen. As a tool.

With or without meditation, Etta James, or wine.

First up,  it’s fast. I mean leave-your-blender-behind-on-the-freeway fast. You can take raw sugar and make caster sugar in a matter of seconds, and in a few more you have icing sugar.  You can mill flour from grains, meaning all types of flours from spelt to rye, oat to rice, within a few seconds. You can grind nuts from whole to chopped, or finer to meals. You can grind whole spices to ground spices in under 20 seconds. And if they taste better roasted – either before or after grinding, use the Thermi to both roast and mill.

Here’s some of the things the Thermomix can do: http://www.thermomix.com.au/what-is-thermomix/functions.aspx

(By the way – I am not endorsing it. I am not an ad. I’m just including this link so that people who have never heard of them can take a peek.)

Go on, I’ll wait.

So, at the end of the day, after  4 years of saying no, but thanks…. I said yes.  Yes indeed I did.

And the first thing I made – was bread.

If you are a naysayer, I am OK with that. You won’t hear me preaching about miracle machines from this little corner of blogland. In fact, this will probably be the only fully-related-to-thermomix blog post I will ever make.

But you will see, from time to time,  references to my Thermomix in recipes, because I do use it in my kitchen. I make my own flour, including spelt, rice, corn and more, from whole grains.  I make my own sugars from raw, nut meals from whole unroasted nuts (I roast and toast first) as do I with whole spices before they are pulverised into  powder for fresh spices. Grind fresh coffee.  Mill up megagazbillion herbs and spices for curry pastes. I’ve started making my own cheeses, and we eat home made butter more often than we don’t.  For me I can see it will do more, much more, but it’s early days. So although I am no longer a skeptic, I do still take the whole ‘it replaces everything in your kitchen‘ speil with a grain of – self-milled – salt.

But it gives me hope.

Maybe one day I’ll even be able to meditate.

Do you own a Thermomix?  What motivated you to buy it? And what do you use it for?