Bubble & Squeak on Boxing Day

All the Commonwealth celebrates Boxing Day and what a day it is. December 26, officially a public holiday, celebrates the post-Christmas sale season. People wake up early and wait for hours by the entrance to their favorite store so when the doors open they can race in for some serious bargain hunting. Unbridled commerce at its merriest. When I ask celebrators about the origins of Boxing Day, they scratch their heads and mumble something about donation boxes being opened and the collected monies being distributed to the poor. And it comes with a look that says, "What, am I Queen Victoria? Read Dickens or some other writer from Antiquity for the answer." Contemporary times require contemporary answers. It is for having an extra paid day off work. It is for hitting the sales and eating holiday meal leftovers.

Sounds like Thanksgiving and the Friday after it, doesn't it? But you are more likely to eat Bubble & Squeak on Boxing Day. A very catchy name for fried-up leftovers. Traditionally, that would be yesterday's potatoes, cabbage and meat. The dish takes its name from the murmurings and hissings the ingredients make while cooking in the frying pan. I've actually read recipes on how to make some variation of this from scratch. But get real, why deny previously prepared food its noble encore? Especially when your feet ache from chasing 60% OFF all day.

Alas, no Bubble & Squeak for us this year. We had a potluck picnic with my brother-in-laws family. Lots of cold salads and Kev grilled up some quail. You know its a gourmet type of poultry when each six ounce bird has about two ounces of meat on it. No leftovers here. The bro brought just enough ham for the brunch. No doubt there is some squeaking going on in his house. But that is quite alright. It's difficult to drive home when one is in a food coma. And there were more than enough Scottish butter cookies and fruit mince pies to fill any imaginary gaps.

A short word on the picnic site. Observe three Callaghans enjoying the shade of an ancient fig tree surrounded by mature palms. Hyde Park (established in 1897) must have been the place for society to stroll on a Sunday afternoon. Simply gorgeous with a pond in the center (seen behind the Grill Meister in picture above.) It is patrolled by ibis and ducks to make sure that no foodstuffs remain on the ground to attract undesirable wildlife. The royal Callaghans, wearing their paper crowns atop shadier chapeau, approve.

Buskers R' Us or Got Change?

The buskers are out in full force in the central business district. Buskers, for those who do not overdose on BBC costume dramas, are people who perform in public for donations. Street performers. I suppose it should surprise no one. After all, this is the time of year when we are feeling more generous while at the same time having more money in our pockets. Knowing this, performers are out in maximum density--a new act starts just as soon as the previous one is out of eye and earshot. Some serious wallet lightening activity going on.

Now I usually listen or watch these people on the sly for a couple of reasons: 1) I'm slinking into the oblivious-to-anything-not-profiting-me resident mode and 2) I am a reluctant [read: uncomfortable] tipper. Have never been the most generous of tippers. Which means the Australian custom of not tipping in restaurants is not as huge a sacrifice as you might imagine. The irony of the extreme likelihood that I -glory hound that I am- would be out there, if I had such a saleable talent, is not lost on me. But now, curiosity is getting the better of me. In non holiday times, a fair percentage of the performers are there as a grassroots marketing effort for their latest self-produced recording. Hey, thanks for throwing money in my hat but how about buying my CD? Musicians on the ships I worked on would occasionally busk for the pleasure of playing music of their choosing--and for lunch money. But what are all these newcomers here for? That first year flutist or granny singing unaccompanied have little in common with the others save the color of their coin catching ice cream tubs.

'On duty' on a recent day were several new people. These two girls, well prepared and set-up, had a sign announcing that they were raising dough to help a school sponsored charity fund. One played the violin and the other sang, both doing a very credible job. This was not a half-baked scheme by a pair of giggly girls. The donations in the violin case were not miserly.

Our man here did a different kind of juggling. He rolled those crystal balls in his hands and all around his body with the greatest of ease. His hat, which seems entirely too far away for my sense of financial security, gets regular drops of coin. But he is in a very good position, smack dab in the middle of the shopping district replacing the recently departed........... Andean pan flute musicians. These folks are pros, from their set-up to the aide selling their CDs for 20 bucks. They've got coin collecting instrument cases facing all directions. I'm rather surprised they didn't accept direct debit or credit cards also.
Some folks were more into three dimensional art. This balloon artist made shapes for kiddies. He was my least favorite side show out there. This deluded mercenary seemed to think that I should pay him a $2 coin to take his picture. Get real, bozo.

This last young lady let me ask a few questions while setting up after a lunch break. A group at her high school, Penrhos College, is planning a trip to Canada. She has spent a year busking during school holidays as her sole way of earning her way on the trip. Unlike most others, her busking license was prominently displayed in her flute case. I'm thinking that her dad, sitting nearby, told her that if she wanted to go overseas she would have to earn it herself. I have no doubt she will make it.

I am looking forward to spotting tomorrow's new cast of characters.

Turn Up the Lights

There are few things more mesmerizing than bright lights. We are drawn to them like moths, wide-eyed, slack jawed and thoroughly hypnotized. And so every Christmas, we hop into the car and drive around to get our annual festive fix. The brighter the better. Can you see the lights from space? Excellent. Is all that surging electricity interfering with passing airplanes' navigational equipment? Even better. Last year--my first Christmas in Perth--was without this very important tradition. There wasn't going to be snow but why no lights?

I just wasn't looking hard enough. True, not as many homes put up strands of bulbs, tinsel and mechanical deer nodding on front lawns, but those few who do go on with a vengeance. And with good reason. Channel 7 offers a $25,000 prize for the best display. None of this 'bragging rights' or chest beating superiority that you get back home. They play for all the marbles here. So we went for a drive.

But not random cruising. You won't find much that way. House addresses are posted online with the occasional handmade sign pointing the way from a main thoroughfare. One street, Consulate Court in Thornlie, held particular appeal. As if it were a scene straight out of "Christmas With The Kranks", almost every house in the cul-de-sac had an impressive display (the noticeable holdout was at the beginning of the street.) All gawkers were on foot. It was the only way to keep people moving.

We started taking an unofficial tally of St. Nick's mode of transportation. The variety of vehicle: sleigh, car, bicycle, motorcycle, helicopter, hot air balloon, surfboard, teeter totter and rocket ship.

You might ask if trolling for electric thrills isn't the same without the enhancing effects of reflective white snow, seeing your breath as you exhale and sucking on icicles broken off bushes. Well, the Doctor is in. The Doctor--a cool breeze off the Indian Ocean--provided enough of a chill to make believe. Have I mentioned that I just love Christmas lights?

Neighborhood Old Italian

I participated in an election recently. The lone candidate made no campaign speeches. In fact, he didn't even know he was running for anything. I was the only voter. The office? Neighborhood Old Italian.

The proprietor of Kakulas (see "These are a Few of My Favorite Things, 2-10-09) suggested that the best people to ask about sourcing quality produce and herbs were our Neighborhood Old Italians (NOI). Handy that my once-Italian neighborhood still has a few hanging around. All too easy to access information about growing herbs in pots at the house and where to find U-pick produce...provided you make a valuable alliance to start with. Enter Carlo, my NOI. He has a very large property on my street with its garden up at eye level. There are bushes to obscure the view from quick-handed opportunists , but not to an interested pair of eyes. Eventually, I started pestering Carlo for advice on why my tomatoes weren't thriving and then where I can get fresh oregano (he gave me a cutting) and then, can I borrow your spade? And so on.

I find his help invaluable, although he downplays it (His dad was the real expert in the family.) I've been given the "tour" of his garden. He's been in Australia enough years to know what you can plant each season - and there are four planting seasons here. When a crop doesn't work for whatever reason, he is annoyed. And cackles like an old thief when tomato or purple bean seeds smuggled in from the old country take off with abundant produce. A perfect place to putter for retiree. Just ask his two brothers-in-law also living on our street. His two sisters live a mere stone's throw from his house. They also have large gardens and Italian accents too thick to figure out. One, Domenic? Guido?, gave me a rosemary cutting to plant and lemons whenever they are ripe.

Carlo is also my connection. I prefer to pick the tomatoes I sauce and can. No U-pick farms anywhere. But Carlo has a choir mate named Nick, who knows somebody who grows tomatoes in great quantity. December is harvest month...Perth is too hot for tomatoes any later than this...and when Paesan's tomatoes are ripe, I am allowed to come over and pick. Under his direct supervision. Sign me up! Carlo thinks the Paesan is wrapped a little too tight and that I am nuts for agreeing to the terms. But Carlo recognizes a fellow fussy customer in his American neighbor and appreciates one with discriminating tastes.

And I appreciate my Neighborhood Old Italian.

The Christmas Parade

I love a parade. Watching them. Being in them. I wave and applaud with the greatest enthusiasm. Don't know who they are , doesn't matter. It's all good. So I made way downtown this past weekend for the Channel 7 / RAC Christmas Parade with great anticipation.


The weather is a taste of a true Perth Christmas: clear skies, morning warming to a hot afternoon. Parents with kids in tow are either hiding in the shade or running from bouncy castle to one amusement or other (including the local chapter of Star Wars Storm Troopers who had set up a photo opp station) to burn off excess energy until the parade starts.

Of course, there are marching bands-this one has violinists marching along with the brass- and every dance school in the metropolitan area has a dance sequence marching in the line up. Local media hypes...er, I mean, types wave from convertibles and the few floats do impress with roaring life-size dinosaurs and pirate ships.

It should surprise no one that wild camels traverse the huge deserts here in OZ. So why was I surprised to turn my head and see three wise men riding camels happily sauntering passed me? Can't imagine anything more appropriate in a Christmas parade now that I am thinking about it. Of course, Santa brought up the rear.
Perhaps a sign of our super safety-conscious times, but no candy was thrown from any vehicle or float. What is a parade without risking life and limb by dodging between land yachts and unicycles to score cheap candy, I ask you?

December 1st

December 1st is a date that may not mean much to you. Just another day.....except here it starts the fall of many happy dominoes.

First, it is the first day of Summer. All seasons start at the first of the month here. Equinoxes (equinoxi ?) are rather irrelevant. To mark this important occasion, the media hits the beach at full force to do stories on all-things-summer-related as if the previous day was Spring's own purgatory. The sun rose at 5:03 a.m. (Daylight Savings is a failed experiment here in Perth) and set at 7:07 p.m. Some people forgot that it is the warm season and were found carrying sweaters to use "against the wind on the Terrace."

The first of December also starts the Christmas Holiday Season. Yeah, the department stores got a bit ahead of the game by the requisite three months, but now municipal workers are putting the finishing touches to the community decorations. People are watching sale circulars for gift shopping and writing greeting cards. A flurry of work/social parties appear on everyone's new calendar page. We had a 13-piece band at our last party and another live band the night before. Let the holiday begin!

It's also blow-fly season. Larger and slower than your average 'house fly' they have a real penchant for people's faces. People tend not to notice the buggers landing on their faces until they've moved to the eyes or mouth (a favorite resting place of "blowies") and even then give only a lazy swat to brush them away. Last year on TV, I saw a high-ranking politician talking on camera seemingly oblivious to the pest traversing his face. I was horrified and impressed until I realized that this is pretty much how all natives react to them. It's we newbies who spend December flapping our arms in front of our faces. Somehow two have managed to get into the house, so now I am permanently armed with a rolled up newspaper. Blowies are not my friends.

Happy SUMMER, Everyone!

Laos III: Sparklettes

Sa-bai-dee, for the final time. I could write 12 postcards from Laos but will limit it to three. And this final one will have just some random snippets.

Lifted from my journal:

Kev gets his traditional on-the-road haircut...and his ears cleaned as an extra service!

Loved the fruit shakes available for 5,000 kip (60 cents)!!!

Why would anyone eat on the main drag when the Mekong cafes were nicer & cheaper?!

Adventurous Kev orders Water Buffalo Hide Crackling and cracks a tooth eating it! Walks into pole and gets a scar on forehead (more hammer & sickle shaped than lightning bolt.)

Hot water from a rainforest showerhead. Worth the extra money. Who needs a TV anyway? (although Miss Marple dubbed in Chinese was marginally entertaining.)

Power and Phone lines are above ground--about 12-15 feet above ground on poles. Looks like 1907 anywhere else.

Recurring theme of trip: Forget or drop Hilary's food orders in restaurants.

Laotians were always clean & presentable. Expected the same from visitors.

No matter how decrepit the home or deep set into the rice paddy the hut, they all had a satellite dish.

National pedestrian curfew of 10 p.m. Also, no ironing or making porno movies in your hotel room. Duly noted.

"Friends" episodes run endlessly in TV bars in backpacker haven, Vang Vieng. Ugh.

Spent a morning watching the clouds dance with the mountains.

Geckos are our friends. They eat mosquitoes.

I really dislike pay toilets. A red letter day was when I pee'd for free...usually on my shoes in some bush.

Transvestites well tolerated and not few in number.

French, English and Manglish spoken/written here. Lao works, also.

Canadians pay the highest visa fee ($41) What did Canada ever do to Laos? All visas are paid in US currency only. Won't take their own money for them.

Morning and evening markets are definitely worthwhile. Bargaining is expected but without aggression.

The southern part of Laos is uber-laidback. The dogs don't bark and even the motor scooters can't be bothered to make much noise or go very fast.

Easy to see why expats stay and visitors return. If you're in the area, put Laos on your list -even if just passing through.

Laos II: Highlights

Sa-bai-dee, again! A few highlights from our Laos trip:

On the Road again: Yes, road. The infrastructure doesn't give you many choices on which path to take to get anywhere. But there are choices of what to travel in on that one road. Our first bus trip, from the capital Vientiane to Pakse in the south was on the overnight Sleeper Bus. Think: Harry Potter's Knight Bus without the squawking shrivelled head. Each bed fits two (small Asians) comfortably and there is a squat toilet on board for passenger convenience. The VIP is modern, air-conditioned transportation. Pinching pennies? Take the Local or 'chicken' bus. You can bring your small livestock, market goods and timber for building on this bus. And it stops everywhere and anywhere you'd like, it seems. It makes a long trip ( the Road is neither straight nor well-paved) even longer--10.5 hours for a 320 mile trip. Every trip a test of endurance.

Wheeee, on/in the water: Just like on the bus, one can see life unfold while travelling by boat. The Mekong River is not particularly wide so you can watch people going about daily living on both shores: people farming, young monks teaching younger monklets how to bathe, delivery of supplies, moving of tourists and young kids cooling down by jumping off of felled trees. It is also cooler and less bumpy a ride than on a bus. I loved it. And sunset on the Mekong is worth experiencing every chance you get.

Loved the many waterfalls also. This is the Huang Si Falls, a series of falls actually, with a magical pool at the bottom of each one. Locals and travellers alike enjoy this place. I'm the one waving in the back, not in the bikini up front. Tiny swimsuits prove problematic for conservative Lao and cartooned cultural posters try to educate visitors on this and other issues. But here a measure of tolerance is shown by local picnickers to scantily clad young backpackers.

Seeing the sights: Having lived in Asia, I suffer from Buddhist temple fatigue although they give joy to Kev. He also took in a few more of the ubiquitous caves than I did (oh,my feet!) including being guided through one by a local dog and "tubing" for free on a stream through another [personal highlights for him.] The cave I managed to get to was entirely more ...modest... than those. More of a hole in the wall with thousands of little Buddha statues in it. The place has high New Year significance for locals, every day interest for steep hill climbing tourists.

Climb a few more steep hills (and neither of us lost any weight?!) to see the Plain of Jars. Thought to be burial vessels, these stone jars are none too small. Most of the lids are missing. The views from their plateau beautiful. The nearby cave (a refuge during the Vietnam War bombing), cool.

The capital, Vientiane, is much like any other city although now getting a spruce-up. The 29th SEA Games (South East Asia games. A regional, multi-sport competition much like the Pan Am or Commonwealth Games) starts on December 9. Laos is getting its first real chance to show off (hey, the border didn't re-open until 1989) and is busy preparing. We watched the opening ceremony flag-and-drum corp practice at a local university. Locals tell us the government has been shutting down the city (e.g., schools) since October. Yoikes, that's early! This should be a huge economic boost to a country that needs it.

Commerce: Running out of space on this postcard... Pleased to report that Laos is not overrun with large corporate chain stores & restaurants. Rather surprised to find that a sophisticated till in shops was a desk drawer. Many small shops and restaurants just used a plastic pail-with or without a lid! And some shops are very small indeed as people convert small parts of their home or bits of furniture into sales areas. The United Nations and Laotian government encourage private industry with any number of business development schemes. I like the silk production from mulberry plant to worm to loom weaving to dyeing to finished product farms. Laotians are encouraged to improve their craft skills and tourists are encouraged to buy handicrafts (as opposed to national antiquities) as souvenirs. I can support this and don't mind when local village stops sometimes look like a maze of retail alleys. I draw the line at one tiny village of "Community-based, Development Initiative" had a specially laid walk path that wended its way past everyone's stand. The villagers themselves were very low key with a soft approach to getting attention and sales but we still felt like a Parade of Walking Wallets. Who does this benefit? The most interesting part of the walk was watching people bathe at the public water pump.

Also noted that villages tend to have specialized production. Thirty road stands in one village all selling watermelon, followed by 30 stands all selling woven baskets, followed by another village selling only papaya and another selling roast chicken-on-a-stick (a regional specialty). Fear not, your chicken bus will stop at all for your shopping convenience.

Laos I : the country

Sa-bai-dee!



O.K. - it's not from OZ, but I like sending postcards from wherever I go. And we just went to Laos for a three week vacation.

Laos? Laos. This South East Asian country is way off the radar of most people I know (including myself) who had nothing directly to do with the Vietnam War. Resting on the Mekong River and bordered by Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Myanmar (Burma) and China, it's a rather 'poor cousin' in the region. A Communist country which keeps that fact fairly well hidden [ save for the occasional red flag with a hammer & sickle on it ] as Buddhism is a stronger life guide for its people. Away from the Mekong rise mountains housing many waterfalls , caves , Buddhist temples and Buddhist temples in caves near waterfalls. Above the equator, its winter days can still be a bit warm. And the presence of avian and swine flu, malaria and dengue fever are real enough for authorities , residents and visitors.






Who travels to Laos? Cheapskates. Which explains the huge swarms of backpackers stretching their budgets by living frugally on $10-12 a day. What brings travellers back? Laos lacks the crowded conditions, frenetic pace, expense and sleaze factor prevalent elsewhere in SE Asia. And the laidback Laotians seem to take it all in stride as it brings money into their pockets with minimal energy expenditure on their part. Everybody wins.






I found many similarities between northern Asia and SE Asia but I focused on the differences. Two more postcards from Laos are in the mail. The next one will have some of the highlights of the trip, the third is filled with sparklettes of the experience.

Court Monitor

It took forever to get, but in some respects my first job in OZ was worth the wait. My new position gives me a front row seat to Perth's underbelly in action, a window into the lives of the devious and malcontented. I am a Court Monitor.

On paper, the job is fairly simple and the technical requirements well within my powers. I ensure high quality audio recording of court proceedings and log the proceedings against the recordings. But unlike manufacturing widgets or flipping burgers in endless succession, my scenery changes by the minute. Dimbulbs follow the grand schemers, teenage drunks precede the 66 year-old first offending thieves. People smugglers, corporate cheats, contentious lawyers, wife beaters and blokes stealing candy from babies--I get them all. With the added thrill of a different judicial system. OK, 'thrill' is more like 'momentary panic' at times, but that is also a plus in the package.

So much information to impart but I cannot possibly list it all here. I think I will answer some of the questions I've been asked amidst select tidbits:
Your day (minute) in court is spent looking at people with their heads buried in paper. The judge, judicial support officer, prosecution, your defense, the court officer and the court monitor are all staring at their copies of various paperwork pertaining to your matter. Don't worry, the JSO will give you your own set of paperwork to bury your head in later.
Judges and lawyers don't wear wigs in the lower courts or in civil matters. Judges do wear a black robe. In district court and higher, you can tell the status of a person by the size of his/her wig and jabot (JAB oh. white ribbon collar.) The larger the size, the more important the person.
Supreme Court handles serious crimes like murder and high value theft. It does not function as a last stop for appeals or rulings like it does in the U.S. The courtrooms themselves are gorgeous and storied in their wood panelling, raised prisoner dock and private fireplace for the judges (no longer used since the advent of central heating).
Magistrates Court is the first stop for everyone. You are either arraigned and sent on to the appropriate court or plead guilty and take your punishment. Mag Court, as we call it, is the intermediary step for attorneys who want to become judges. It is also the Lawyer/Mag's first chance to tell idiots and repeat offenders exactly what they think of them.
The terminology has changed in the past couple of years. It is no longer "The Queen vs..." , "Appearing for the Crown.." or "Your Worship", rather, "The Commonwealth vs..." , "Appearing for the State..." and "Your Honor, Sir, Ma'am" although I've never heard anyone being corrected when saying 'Your Worship'.
If you are entering or exiting a court in session, you must show reverence for the court. A short bow...even an irritated jerk of the head...is considered good form and proper behavior. No eating or drinking. Keep your kids under control.
Newbies are easily spotted. First timers are always dressed in the best clothes they own. Suit & tie. His brother's khakis. Her most expensive sweater. Their faces are white, bodies stiff and the most likely to come to tears during their appearance. This all falls away with each successive appearance. Habitual criminals just manage to change out of their pajamas before showing up. Only just.
Peculiarities in the legal ranks. It seems lawyers the world over have an unwritten code: the more attention paid to their clothing, the less time spent on grooming. I don't think more than two or three practicing attorneys in Perth own a comb or brush. And everyone uses their given names. There are no Bob's, Susie's or Andy's on the legal rolls.
Court Monitors do well to develop stoney faces. If we forget that we are part of the courtroom, utterances of "yeah, right", "loser", "you're kidding" are heard by those near us. Even facial expressions like rolling eyes aren't a good idea. Some very good reasons why most of us prefer the courtrooms that have Monitors in offset booths instead of near the judicial bench. No one is looking behind the glass.
Residential Tenancy appearances are a penance. Only the senior monitors get the juicy Supreme cases and no one wants Children's Court. A steady diet of heartbreak is hard on the soul.

Naturally with all this excitement going on during our days, Court Monitors can't wait to tell their spouses about the latest case (omitting sensitive information, of course) and the new things they learned. Oddly, spouses don't seem as excited about the whole thing. And not everything I learn has a legal aspect. One week I learned how to tie a double (full) Windsor knot in a necktie, Monday I learned that the optimal bull:cow service ratio is 2:50. Hey, I had to get something out of that monumentally boring civil case.

Ribbons

I am an addict.

I have aspired to this state since I was about nine years old. On the outside, looking in. Eyes mesmerized by bright lights reflected off glass, wanting what others had. Plotting, planning, scheming how I, too, could come to glory.

Shelf after shelf loaded with bottled beauties. Tables of creations which able and amateur hands had made. Some worthy, some unworthy of the accolade draped upon them. Accolades that could be, would be, mine. Ribbons, of course. Prize ribbons at the State Fair are what we are talking about. And the first one sets a person on the path of obsession, nay, addiction to wanting more.

I had many nonstarters. First with my favorite bread to make called Sally Lunn-baked in a bundt pan. But the entry deadlines are months before the fair and I didn't develop a fever for it all until too late. The DT's hit during the fair itself, when sadly nothing could be done. A successful victor knows patience and when to strike. [This also describes terrorists, but we aren't going there.] My last year in Ohio saw my perfect opportunity to achieve goal. I was canning peaches when I had a vision. A dozen or so of the peaches were of equally small dimension. They twinkled. They winked. They waited without complaint while I carefully peeled and placed their worthy fruit into a mason jar. They held their shape and heads high when the blue Christmas ribbon I placed on the lid was replaced with a first place ribbon by the judges. They had delivered my dream.

But what to do in Perth? The Royal Show had different rules and the preservation method itself was different. I checked out the competition on my first Show here. Ha! This wouldn't be just a ribbon, this was going to be ownership of the competition. The fever never left. I measured peaches at the grower's market so they would fit my jars perfectly. OK, they gave me a funny look when they spotted this until they heard about my plan. I was then escorted to the nonpublic sorting room to have my pick of the harvest. I also carefully selected tomatoes for judge-blinding shape and size. My pickled pepper relish looked like heavenly confetti. Ammunition ready, I reached for the application.

Problem. The rules seem to indicate that every entry must have a twist-off lid to allow the judges to taste the contents. All well and good for jams & chutneys, but one never opens vegetables without using or refrigerating afterwards. I called the Chief Steward who agreed that was an issue and said to enter my canning jars as they were. Indeed.

But, in fact, my tomatoes were not rule-compliant. They were not pickled. The judges could/would not taste them...and I would not have expected them to. But who uses pickled tomatoes in their spaghetti sauce? Who pickles tomatoes? This requirement may be the entire reason that only three entries were turned in for the vegetable class. The other two were bread & butter pickles and a jar of pickled mini peppers. My red beauties were destined to be fourth in a three horse race.

My tomatoes won a red ribbon--second prize--untasted. Gosh, how bad were those peppers? You might notice that re-using commercial jars is perfectly OK here at the Royal Show. An absolute no-no at State Fairs back home.

I happened upon the Chief Steward during my day at the Show. She had the grace to look repentant. She realized about an hour after talking with me on the phone that she had given the wrong advice and had no way of correcting the information.

One can't function without a few extra fixes during the year. So during the off season, I enter a few creative contests-either ideas or writing- to scratch the itch. When one pays off, you'll be the first to know.

Perth Royal Show

I really like State Fairs. City slicker that I am, Fairs still appeal to me in a big way. And the Western Australia equivalent is the Perth Royal Show held at the end of every winter in September. It's smaller than the Ohio State Fair- after all, as huge as this state is, it only has a hair over two million inhabitants- but contains many of the requisite features.

The train drops attendees off in full view of the parade grounds where equestrian events are held. Dog handling competitions are also held here. There is a Heritage Trail full of antique equipment of all kinds: milking machinery, wood turning, wool combing & cleaning and the forebear of Australia Post-the Electric Western Australia Telegraph. Antique men demonstrated how Morse Code was used to get messages to people in the hinterlands. I dispatched a few myself.
Of course, there are the cattle, sheep and exotic animal barns. A petting zoo for the kids (so why is there a huge Brahman bull in there? Huge, he was.) I skip the rides (and who has $15 per ride to spare? The newest ride costs $20 for 2½ minutes worth of thrill. No thanks.) and the commercial buildings (uber-crowded and counterproductive to covering the grounds before I go on duty. I did, however, sample some fruit ports at a stand near the door.) Show bags- plastic bags filled with candy, games, sports stuff, girly stuff, guy stuff, dairy stuff, school stuff, you get the picture-are an excellent way to unload spare money. Just ask any parent with a formerly fat wallet. I got only one, the Follow The Yellow Brick Road bag. It contained a carrot, two apples, a tangerine along with a map and passport to collect more freebies in various buildings.
I ate lunch while watching the Grand Champion and Reserve Champion judging. Was very amused when the judges called for one last promenade of entries, a steer just flopped himself on the ground instead. (What, am I a show pony?) The light brown one in the right-hand pix was Grand Champion, the white next to him was Reserve Champion. Universities are allowed to show their animals.
My ticket was courtesy of the Country Women's Association, so off to volunteer I go. The CWA runs a tearoom on the grounds. An excellent place to escape the maddening crowds and have an inexpensive cup of tea and a plate of biscuits (cookies). The view out the window is impressive. People return year after year to our little haven. I worked the room last year and knew too many CWA'ers make Anzac biscuits (oatmeal cookies)-variety on the plate is difficult to achieve that way. So I made thumbprint cookies (filled with my homemade strawberry jam), lemon sugar cookies and gingerbread cookies both cut out into shapes and decorated with icing or maraschino cherry bits. What is not to like about a bunny with red eyes or a gingerbread kangaroo, I ask you?

You were about to ask of my canned tomatoes entered into the Cookery competition. That is my next blog entry.

I only live here

Hi. My name is Hilary. And I am a renter.





Hi Hilary.





Renting one's abode has its advantages; reduced property responsibilities being one of them. One of the disadvantages is that you are always at the mercy of the person(s) who does own your place. We are never consulted on issues that have direct bearing on tenant lifestyle. In fact, they don't bother to tell us what they are going to do on the property at any point. A small, overcrowded tree fell in the backyard causing very minor damage. The management company cut the two very large, stable trees shortly there after (no shade in summer, no water protection from winter rains, either. But water damage is their additional cost...) We didn't know anything about the deforestation until we saw the arborist sawing away at the trees.
Now the property is further ravaged by defoliation. The roaring chain saw was hard to ignore. I dashed out of the house to find out what was going on. The arborist clued me in. Apparently, a security gate is going in, so shrubbery must go to make way for it. A security gate?! Good thing someone told us about this, even if it was the groundskeepers. The noxious shrub they could take with my blessings, but they chopped down the almond tree located five feet from the sidewalk. They left the pestilential ivy on the fence. I could have cried. Number 36 is two sidewalk weeds from being a concrete kingdom. Ugh.

Other renter news just found out today. Because we live on an exterior wing facing the street, we have never gone too far into the main block. No reason to. Today I discovered, when being helpful to potential new neighbors, that WE HAVE ACCESS TO A SWIMMING POOL! We've heard splashing during the blistering hot summer, but Kev said it was on a neighboring property. Kev has lived here for three (3) years and did not know we have a pool. I could hurt him. It's not large. It doesn't have a beach. But on a 42C/112F day, I don't care. It's wet.

A night at the races

Last night we went to the races. The greyhound dog races. Like the kind you see in tourism ads for the state of Florida. Not the kind of place I would normally be hanging out. Nor am I offering a treatise upon the subject. But the social club at Kev's work makes an annual trek to the greyhound track every September.

For the seafood buffet. The dogs are just an aside.

I avoid all-you-can-eat places because invariably that is exactly what I do. And after the last mussel I ate several years ago sent me to the hospital, I avoid seafood as well. But its an outing with people I like and a new experience. And an eye-popping dessert table. Oh dear. Quite the hodge podge of people here. The 20-somethings came totally vamped up. The 30-somethings came with kiddies in tow (the track touts its family atmosphere). Everyone came hungry. Did people notice the band? They played both kinds of music--country and western in between races. There was actually a gaming table, just one, with an even-odds game called Crown & Anchor. Don't ask me, I don't gamble. No bookies. A few tote windows. The requisite TV monitors. Most replaying dog races. One with a nearby horse race. The last with the movie Naked Gun 33-1/3, The Last Insult playing on it. Sounds a little more frenetic than it was. Pretty laid back, I thought.

Went out to trackside for one of the races. No thundering hooves from large beasts. No animal smells. The quiet, swift flash of whippet thin dogs whizzing past. The only smell was from the wet, white sand they ran on.

Interesting. And yes, I ate too much. Desserts

Oh, it's the Cheese Lady...again.

I've mentioned before about the lamentable state of dairy products on offer here in OZ. These poor blighters sink their teeth into puce-colored rubber because the package says it is cheese. The type? Tasty. You know, like Gouda, Havarti, Swiss or Cheddar--Tasty. I am here to tell you that it is neither cheese nor tasty. One bite into this nasty stuff will send you into raptures of swimming in vats of warm Velveeta. And loving it.

So what is a gal to do on the odd occasion where she just cannot live without real cheese? Well, there is the gourmet food section of the toney department store, David Jones. They have real cheese with prices up to $123/kilo (just under $60 a pound.) The local grocery stores, Woolworth's & Coles, do have Brie and Camembert available and the King Island brand is my preferred brand. King Island is a little speck in the Bass Strait just northwest of the island state of Tasmania. The air and water there are said to be the purest in OZ. Which makes the beef legendary (probably because no one can buy it anywhere) and its cheeses prize winning. While not costing a king's ransom, it is still too dear for our budget--at regular retail.

I have taken to trolling the dairy aisle checking for expiration dates. I pick out cheeses that have long been expired but not plucked from the shelves with my left hand and in my right hand pick up the King Island packets due that day. I find the person in charge of dairy and hand them the out-of-dates with a most sympathetic look. Unfortunately for retailers, it is not legal in this state to sell past-date dairy products. Such a waste, tsk tsk. And then I present them with my now-or-never beauties for a price reduction. "I would be happy to save you from throwing this away in a mere few hours if you mark it down appropriately, say, to one dollar?" And so the 250 gram, $9.95 round of cheese is mine for a buck. This works quite well at my local Coles. In fact, most of the dairy case folks now know what I will propose even before I open my mouth. Saves energy all the way around.

Woolworth's is a slightly tougher nut to crack, especially for so ...reasonable...a discount. Recently, I spotted an empty shelf where eggs had been on sale for $1.99 instead of their usual $4-5 per dozen. "Oh, how disappointing. Gee, Grant, do you think a substitution can be made?", I ask the stock clerk. This is an unheard of concept in this country--making a substitution for a sale product that has run out. However, Grant didn't laugh. He recognized me. He looked for a similar product: XL, grain fed, dozen. "This expires at the end of this month, will that be OK for you?", he asks earnestly. I think so and he replaces the $4.69 price tag with one that says $1.88.

Now, I know many people who are very adverse to the idea of buying food so close to expiration date. Indeed, there are comestibles that I would not even consider purchasing with very little life left in them. But ripe cheese just gets riper, eggs are stored in warehouses for months before they make it to the store shelves (fresh eggs will not hard boil in under 20 minutes, as a matter of fact) and even bottled water has a legally-mandated expiration date. So I buy with confidence and consume in good time.

And enjoy my reputation.

Koala Kiropractic

I don't want to give my gentle readers the wrong impression of Perth. It is a thoroughly modern, cosmopolitan city that fits into the universe just as well as Sydney or Melbourne do. The Indian Ocean beckons surfers & whale watchers and sends a cooling breeze to the concrete jungle that is the Central Business District (downtown). OK, 20 minutes outside of the metro area will see the famous/infamous sunburnt red dirt collecting on your shoes and car tires, but that's practically the bush. We're The City.

So imagine my surprise recently when I dragged my aching frame to the closest chiropractic clinic nearest my CBD office. Dr J. Gilmore, Chiropractic care for Adults & Children. His daughter, Pamela Hellemons, Chiropractic care for Adults & Animals. What? Mooo? Never heard of such a thing, and I know that nothing bigger than a kitten can fit into the incredibly tiny elevator up to the fifth floor. Turns out, Pam is my bone-cracker. Prefers that hands-on, Hong Kong movie style of adjustments as opposed to the less aggressive mini-thumping Activator Dr Skaates uses. I didn't have the nerve to ask about animal chiropractic until the second visit.

Apparently, people really prefer their show/race horses to have spinal harmony. Fido, Spot and Alexander The Great II frequently get adjustments before big dog shows. Who knew? Is it covered by pet health insurance? Where does one get trained for that? Actually, a quick check of the internet shows that quite a few people crack horses into equine equilibrium. Pam tells me that horses respond readily to adjustments...and fall out of adjustment almost as fast, as well. She told of an incident at AQWA-a marine park at the ocean's edge- about ten years ago. A shark was starting to swim rather sideways. The staff (heavily) sedated it and a chiropractor went in to set it right. Put that on your resume.

Cheeky customer that I am asked if she could adjust kangaroo, koalas or the everyday wombat. Hasn't yet, but is confident in getting the job done should the occasion arise.

Life hands out lemons....

...and I make lemonade! Quite literally. Half of every home has a lemon tree and everyone's lemon tree is groaning under the weight of rapidly ripening fruit. What to do with all this stuff????? Think of your average garden zucchini. You can't help but get excited when the first few are ready to be picked. Then you get rather blase' about zucchini for supper again. Make zucchini bread, foist them off on friends and neighbors. Finally, panic sets in as the squash-on-steroids vegetable overtakes the backyard. You take boxes of the stuff to soup kitchens (and run fast before they refuse yet another donation of the green monsters), leave a few in the church vestibule and in a crate on the berm with a sign that screams, FREE!

Well, that is the point where our neighbors are now. I picked up a bag of them from the bench outside church this morning. I've picked up bags hanging from fence posts and entrances to CWA meetings. My sister-in-law has them ready for when our paths might even remotely cross. Further down our street, one homeowner got fed up, cut down the entire tree and dragged it to the curb--with tons of ripe lemons still on the branches. I was far from the only vulture at that carcass scavenging what I could carry.

So what do I do with them all? I told you. I make lemonade. Actually, I juice them and freeze one-cup blocks for use when summer arrives. I aim to have half the freezer full of lemon blocks before its all over. Kevin doesn't really need all that meat in there (I much prefer eggs for protein anyway) and he can always find it on sale year round. But I have only now to seize this opportunity to build my defenses against the longest, hottest summers I hope I'll ever have to endure. A one-cup block makes only one quart (liter) of lemonade. That's about two days, if we're lucky. And summer seems to last about 270 days. Do the math. Hmmmm. Maybe half a freezer just isn't enough.....

Creative Writers Group

I have joined a Creative Writers Group. Actually, we have just formed under the Victoria Park Library's aegis. The library collected names and preferred times, collated the results and threw nine names into the first Tuesday evening of the month slot. A rainy night, three called in regrets, two didn't show up, so the four of us looked at each other and wondered how a writers group was supposed to work.



The cast of characters: Melissa, an architectural drafter who wields a pen after hours. Jacqueline, former ESL teacher and an internationally published travel writer (we're all impressed, she isn't) who is tired of lots of work for little pay and is chucking it in for her first novel. Ceilin, a library science student who has all of her writings categorized & numbered in books. And me, short form writer with no delusions of making JK Rowling bucks with her 50 word scribblings. (Short form. Apparently only a term used by electronic media types. Those print guys, always in the middle of a 175,000 word novel when not paying the bills with police blotter or obscure magazine blather, have trouble with the phrase.)



Eventually we decided that we would do a mix of things. We will share some of our current or previous writing projects plus finish a writing 'assignment' for the next month. The assignment for October: Random Trash. That curbside bulk trash collection occurs this month in Victoria Park. We will be inspired by the roadside offerings of our neighbors and write from any perspective for no more than two pages. Two pages! Have I mentioned yet that I write short form pieces? I have promised not to print out my blog entry on the subject [Trash & Treasures, March 5, 2009] but will write something new. We are away!

Forty-- The New 21

This past weekend, we went to the 40th birthday party of my brother-in-law Brian's girlfriend, Donna.

[Hold narrative here. The terms "girlfriend" and "boyfriend" are all but eliminated from the Australian lexicon and replaced by the term "partner". Long term partners are also called "de factos". As I like Donna, none of these clinically sterile terms shall I use. Henceforth, she shall just be Donna.]

It was a nice little party in the very recently finished backyard of the "renovator's dream" Brian has been chiseling into a home for the last 12 years. Friends, neighbors, kids, hippies and the august were there to wish her well, eat lots of good nibbles and sip on champagne. After the contemporary bit of art doubling as chocolate birthday cake had been presented, people called for a speech. Donna became teary eyed as she figured her last twenty years weren't as nice as her next twenty shaped up to be now that she had little Natie and Brian.A table groaned under fancy presents all making my jar of homemade jam look lame.


It all seemed a bit much for an adult birthday that didn't come with "the keys to the house." Kevin's 40th was a big deal for his family and they collected lots of money to give him which, in turn, paid for our hot air balloon ride. I thought he did rather well by me when I presented him with his long dreamed of yellow Ferrari. (Parks very nicely in a matchbox size garage, thank you.) It's rather an Australian thing. Eighteen, twenty-one or thirty aren't real hallmarks of adulthood or maturity. "Forty. It's the new 21," explained Kev and echoed by some of the ladies I was chatting with. Indeed, Donna will be going back home to Adelaide later this month to celebrate this momentous occasion with her family.

So now I have something to look forward to in a dozen or so years when I turn 40. ahem.

Random Musings III

Today we are having a little dinner party to celebrate my first week of employment as a Court Monitor (log & record proceedings for transcription.) I have cleaned the house and soon Kev will start cooking for his brother & family. In the meantime, a few odd 'n' ends to share:

Attorneys everywhere seemed to have gotten that dark-suit-as-uniform memo. But why don't any of them anywhere brush their hair? Must be in the Universal Lawyer Code. Only one grand exception that I can see. A lawyer came through yesterday with dark hair & a modified blond Mohawk---and a suit doubtless borrowed from a not-the-same-size cousin, with a rock n' roll voice to match.

At the risk of sounding like my grandmother, here is a garden report:

I thought the almond tree out front that was whacked down by a botanical butcher posing as an arborist was a goner. But lo, we have white flowers popping up. It lives!

The colorful singing birds all disappeared (except the nasty black crows) when the estate agent chopped down out two mature trees. One little songbird has returned. You go, Tweetie!

The rosebush I liberated from the closed Carlisle-Lathlain Bowls Club and replanted by my front porch clings to life as evidenced by a single peach colored bloom.

There was a newspaper columnist (Kirkpatrick? by name) who lamented improper use of English words. Like using "regime" instead of "regimen". And "regimen" instead of "regiment". Absolutely no one in the media here seems to know the difference. I try not to roll my eyes when I hear about healthy eating regiments and exercise regimes.

I hadn't thought I was all that big on fast food but I continue to miss the $1, 'value' or 99¢ option. Mind you, I'm not buying anything else, but its the option I miss. Value Meals are rather not inexpensive. Hmmmmm, I think I have been to "Maccas" four times since I arrived in OZ.

Caught me by surprise. I was walking along the sidewalk of a suburban strip mall when my eyes spotted two horses. Mounted police patrols ticketing parking infractions. Don't know why I would think a major city which hosts many large public events would not have a mounted patrol or that, in absence of large events to monitor, the officers wouldn't be doing other duties but there they were. The Perth police department has 20 mounts--most are large draft horses or draft horse cross-breeds.

Egg rings. You know, those round metal rings used ensure perfectly round fried eggs found at fast food places? Don't recall seeing any back home. Seriously popular here along with egg cups.

Way early on in these blogs, I remarked at the odd habit of growing vegetables to detrimentally large proportions. Well, I've got artwork that set me to laughing again. A national grocery concern was promoting healthy eating and released this picture. Her left arm cradles a pumpkin. Her right shoulder braces a bale of green onions complete with carrying handle.

And finally, I've seen my first dolphin in the very brown Swan River! Followed by a few dozen pelicans floating with the current. It was during a Bridges Tour being held as part of Engineering week. What I learned of the area bridges was interesting. The dolphin and swans were exciting.

Oh, the chef has entered the cooking temple. More musings at another time.

National Health Service

I have avoided sticking my hand into this hornets nest for the longest time. But as the topic of a national health plan is being hotly debated back in the States, it is as good a time as any to put my two cents worth in. Let me state, right from the start, that I do not have a definitive answer to the U.S. healthcare question that decidedly needs one. I do have direct experience in different national health services, self-insured companies, private health plans and public clinics.

Important to remember is that a National Health Service is the ultimate in managed care. Think: the mother of all HMOs. An NHS cannot be all things to all people. It tries to do the best it can with what it has to work with, both in resource and population. Which is why no two Services are alike despite the fact that they are all in the health care business.
For example:
In Australia, hospitalization is free (except for Workers Comp claims which are covered by employers private insurance.) This is nice for me at 3a.m. suffering from a kidney stone. Ultimately, it is better for OZ as hospitalization is cheaper than lifelong acute maintenance of
an untreated population. Doctors appointments are entirely different: you pay the doctor up front ($55) and then apply to Medicare for a predetermined refund ($31), you pay for the special diagnostic work ($390) at time of service and get rebated afterwards ($205)-every time, there is not a deductible amount before a higher benefit is reached. Private insurance is strongly recommended by the government with disincentives for delaying its purchase. Medicare does not cover glasses, teeth, feet or alternative medicine like chiropractic. And doctors say with some pride that they are not Canada.
Canada, free hospitalization and free doctor visits at all NHS facilities. Woo hoo, sounds great. But there are trade-offs here. The waits for appointments and diagnostics can be a whole lot longer than Americans are accustomed to, doctors have salary caps (which sends many of the high-specialty docs south of the border for big bucks) and there is rationing of services based on resources and demographics (100 hip replacements per year in Winnipeg, I believe. Mr. 101 has a long painful wait for the new year.)
In Korea, I was fairly fortunate. The polluted air gave me chronic bronchitis. The doctor I went to gave me three days worth of medicine-as a courtesy to a foreigner-whereas natives also on the national plan had to come in daily. A mild hemoturic condition of mine was a problem for the government immigration office (but not for me personally) which could have been a pain dealing with the not-quite-Western-sterile hospital. My assigned urologist happened to be a student of mine and the "problem" was dispatched in a flash.
Of course, we have all heard of the famously comprehensive national health scheme enjoyed by Cubans (who enjoy precious little else) and the infamous dirty sheets & one needle for the entire ward care given in Russian hospitals.

So why do I mention all of this? Am I anti-national health insurance? No. Although I think putting the entire U.S. on a NHS unfeasible and undesirable. Have I languished for hours in public clinics/hospitals waiting for whatever service I can get? Yes. Have I had incredibly good health insurance coverage at low cost with small payments and zero deductables? Yes and didn't appreciate it as much as I should have.

My point is that my fellow Americans should really give a great deal of thought as to what kind of healthcare they feel is imperative, what can be dropped to a lower tier of importance, how much inconvenience they are willing to incur and, as medical care is not cheap regardless of who pays for it, what they are willing to pay for it. My fellow citizens might also stop awarding & applauding high court settlements for minor medical mishaps--malpractice insurance is driving those healthcare costs to the moon. Do your research and then get to a town hall meeting near you with real, constructive input.