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!