Condiments are King

    There is an Australian movie that rests near the heart of most Australians.  It's called "Castle" starring some well known (here) Australian actors like Michael Caton highlighting contemporary issues of its day in the 80s and even today.  It's very Aussie in many ways.  
    A movie critic [or was it a social commentator] hailed its Aussieness by pointing out that in this family's dining room was the stereotypically huge collection of sauces and condiments used in every Aussie home worth the name.  Right now, even as you and he reads this, Kev is spouting about what nonsense this is.  But I have to say I think Kev is in denial.  A quick look in our kitchen is my proof.

Condiment shelf in fridge

 The second shelf in our fridge is quick proof that no Australian home is complete without  a half dozen different mustards, hot sauces , jams, tomato-based sauces, Asian cooking sludges, curry pastes,  relishes, soy-based and chili-based food additives. I would say the whole shelf but I do manage to squeeze in an egg carton and a tub of yoghurt occasionally. The door holds a few more bottles of culinary...magic.  There are only three shelves in the fridge.  I'd say we have the full complement of condiments here.  We have a triangular pantry wedged in the opposing corner to the fridge and it also holds its share of steak sauces, red and green pepper sauces and the like.  Yes, Kev, I do have a few varieties of vinegars and sugars, but I need those for my award winning recipes and Show entries.  Plus, one can never have too many Jell-O packets in the pantry.

Bland food antidotes

    Let's move on to the spice shelf. We have only two shelves and yes, you guessed it, one of them is full of spices. This fact alone should thrill the producers of Master Chef.
They are not from a single source. The Asian shop Kev favors, Kakulas I favor, Penzeys from back home and the local grocery store all have contributed to the Cuisine du Callaghan served up in this very Australian kitchen.  It is what I came to, not created. So I tend to agree with the aforementioned TV/social commentator about the Australian kitchen and dining table.
     These last few blog entries have given you the full tour of the house.  We're back in the real world next time.  

Home Brew

    NEWSFLASH: Australians love their beer.   Yeah, OK, that is yesterday's news, or the last millennium's to be more exact.  But Kev isn't a one-brand kind of guy.  He likes variety.  He likes it to be cheap.   A "big ask" to combine the both requirements at the same time.  
    Fortuitously, a workmate said he had a beer making kit he wanted to get rid of.  Woo hoo!  Kev likes to try his hand in the kitchen and  experimental beer making would not only pair cheap and variety but add a pinch of mad scientist also!  Beer making mix (of which there are many, many varieties) costs about $12 and a couple more bucks for a bag of sugar.

It's all hopping in the utility sink

    Our bathroom has proven to be the best laboratory for the operation.  Like a cave, it seems to maintain the ideal temperature for the brewing process.  If you think I'm fussy about canning, you should see Kev with his brewing.  All water used gets boiled for several minutes before being poured into his never before used brew tub. The temperature gauge, the dark strip on the side, tells him when to start adding powders and potions. Handily, it notifies him that a constant, optimal brewing temperature is being maintained during the process.  Perhaps a little hard to see is a curved plastic vent pipe type of thing on top of the blue lid. As things are fermenting, water collects and bubbles like mad for a few days.  Music to Kev's ears, odd lullabying to mine as the gurgle goes on day and night.

    After about a week, it's bottling time.  Another delicate operation that requires much of the bathroom floor (so go now or go in the bushes!)  as empty glass pop bottles are sterilized  and then filled up with the beer mixture.  This tub yields about 24 liters (essentially, quarts) of beer or 20 liters of way too frothy ginger beer. We drank an awful lot of Schweppes tonic to supply the bottles for his beer.  And we are constantly scrounging around for plastic Coca Cola caps as they are the only size that works on the bottles.  After bottling, the three or so cases are stacked in the bathroom for several days.  If they are going to burst, this will be the time. Although I would much rather the bottles blow their tops outside plus this is the only time that this process really gets in the way of laundry and other cleaning, I hold my tongue. The cases of beer are stored under our table on the back patio for their three week maturing stage and permanent storage.  Every few days a few bottles are put into the fridge.  Kev still has the occasional Guinness or Trappist ale or whatever swamp juice is on clearance at the bottle shop, but the home brew is a source of pride and saved money.
    Pride is a good word. Kevin honors all visitors with a chance to try his homemade beer. Brewing is worked around announced visits by parents, friends and other family so they will be able to try a fresh beer themselves.  My sister Anne is coming to Perth in December and Kev is planning his next batch now.  But no reservations are really needed, a Callaghan Creation is always available.

Thankful for the Harvest and Friends

    OK, the trick here is for a greenhorn to boast of botanical bonuses (and pretend to have a green thumb) while not sounding like one of her grandmother's garden reports. If I skip the rainfall stats (there wasn't much to speak of anyway), average temps (everyplace has temps), barometric readings (ummmmmmm), dew drop indexes (duhhhhhhh) and whatever else, I'll have....

Gardenia in the Herbarium

    THANKSGIVING!   The joy of serving up smidgens of one's own puny garden as part of the grand feast and calling oneself Pilgrim.  It took me entirely too long to figure out that if the winter's rains were not going to happen, I would have to water by hand. A neighbor's tomato plants are as tall as a man, my tomato plants are knee high.  But, the long dormant gardenia plant came to life. A gorgeous, fragrant bloom heralded the harvest to come.  The herbs growing in the  same location were ready to take their place on my table.  The beets went through waves of new greenery which, happily proved par for course for that vegetable. In fact, although not a traditional Thanksgiving dish, Yale Beets was served up as part of my harvest.

   I suppose someone could complain about a lot of effort for so little result [the clay pot behind the gardenia yielded just these four beets] but I am completely stoked over the result. The greens provided a second meal's vegetable and I quickly enhanced the soil and replanted more beet seeds with the hope I'll have vegetables before summer ends. There is no 'harvest season' here like in North America. Fruit and vegetables grow year round on their own harvest schedules.  Tomatoes don't see much of summer and soon I will be picking some farmer's crop for my canning pleasure.  

Keith,  Kev,  Paul and turkey

    But back to the present,  It's getting too warm to do serious indoor cooking and, while I would cook a Thanksgiving supper on the Fourth of July, this time we have an out-of-town guest.  A friend of Kevin was here from Melbourne and the sun went into hiding for two days. So I snipped some thyme, pulled some semi-developed onions and eased the beets out of soil.  The turkey stuffed and in the oven (the smell so great a torture to the neighbors not invited) then I cut corners on preparing the  beans and sweet potatoes. Hey, it wasn't that cool outside or in to do all sorts of casseroling.  The cranberry sauce was right out of a jar. It's the best part about cooking a T-giving dinner for neophytes, they don't know what it is supposed to look like and won't know where the skimping has been done. Our neighbor Keith, who loves roasted turkey, joined us.  
    So, modest as it was on all accounts, this Thanksgiving we were thankful for the harvest and friends to share it with.

The Spring Scourge

"I don't know why she swallowed a fly, I think she'll die"... song my mother sang in deep, dramatic tones to us when we were little.

    Flies serve their purpose.  They hover around rotting vegetation and dog droppings and do what they do at the level they are in the order of the Universe.  Your path will cross with them for only as long as you are near their target. Move away from the target and you are fly free.
   Not so in Australia.  Spring is Blow-Fly Season, a time when a kajillion winged terrorists per square kilometer are out and looking for action in the form of moisture.  You won't walk away from their target. You ARE their target as the most reliable sources of moisture are your eyes, nose and mouth.  A quick swat of the hand will not permanently shoo "blowies" away.  It is easy to identify Australians from visitors in the spring because most Aussies will not be swatting at the flies on their face until the blowies are approaching an aperture. Visitors walk around with their arms and hands constantly moving as if performing an exotic dance.

    In the bush, where availability of eyeballs gets pretty scarce, the blowflies can be relentless.  You might see pictures or cartoons of Aussies or tourists in the outback wearing netting over their head or the very iconic  hat with wine corks dangling by string from the brim.  The ever moving corks take the place of your hands in disturbing the flies.  I made myself  a white net (to match my hat) and can attest to just how weird it feels to have dozens of flies crawling so close yet so far away from the face.  And how liberating it is not to have to defend yourself all the time.

    But netting and bobbing corks in the city is more than a bit silly looking. Would you wear spurs on your cowboy boots in the city?  Didn't think so.  But one must be vigilant. You could be talking on your cell phone with your husband, laughing at a joke and a blowie will find his way to the back of your throat in a nanosecond. Or you could momentarily forget to breath through your nose while exercising and that next inhale gathered more than just oxygen.  Yes, I've swallowed two blow-flies this spring. Ugh. Ewwww.  cough, cough.  I haven't died...yet...but Spring's blow-flies are about the only reason I have to look forward to a Perth boiling hot summer.

    "She swallowed a horse...she died, of course...I wonder why."   Why was this woman swallowing animals of any size? How did the big ones get down her throat? And who wrote this weirdness anyway?  Childhood questions never answered.

Cornish Pasties at the Canning Show

    This weekend was all about the Canning Show.  A regional agricultural show just six miles down Albany Highway from where I live, it is far more...accessible... than the Perth Royal Show.  Families with youngsters and oldsters appreciate the smaller grounds and fewer mazes to walk through. It's less expensive to get in.  The entertainment program includes more local talent and the public gets an eyeful of collections too small or out of the mainstream to warrant state fair attention. The Australian Model Ship Builders Society created waves with their display as did the Holden model auto club. Get up close to crafters doing origami, patchwork, machine knitting, spinning, leatherwork, hardanger (embroidered cloth with artful holes in it) and an apiarist talking about honey.  Not too many animals at this Show located on the grounds of the greyhound racetrack (guinea pigs and rabbits only) but one still can hop on a ride and buy a show bag.  The Canning Show really picks up where the Royal Show gets off. Because of their relatively immediate  registration time, the Canning Show can highlight areas the Royal Show cannot.
    Fruits, vegetables and flowers get center stage here. A gardener will know what the patch will produce one week out (as opposed to the two months lead time required for the Royal Show) and are eager to put it all on display. Just like at the PRS, the same names keep popping up on winner cards. Does anyone enter just one item?  Get a load of that giant purple turnip on the top shelf. A jack o' lantern could have been carved from it. Extraordinary amounts of silverbeet (maybe it's known as Swiss Chard in No. America) were on a table display next to rows of flowers.
   But why am I here? For the Cookery division.  The jam class is pretty limited and I don't hyper-decorate cakes or cupcakes.  I entered some cookies to camouflage my real target: the Cornish Pasty class. Pasties-the ultimate comfort food in our family and even served at my wedding.  Three Cornish pasties on a plate.   Not "party pasties" I was told at registration but full size pasties.  Friday morning I awoke at 5 a.m., propped up my Grandma's recipe and went to work peeling and chopping potatoes, rutabagas, carrots and onions.  Mixing the vegetables with ground beef by hand (the only way, so said my Grandma) and stuffing the dough. The smell of heaven baking wafted through the house and brought Kev downstairs much earlier than he normally would. Hands off- these are for judging! I delivered them still piping hot for pre-show judging.  Competitors bringing in frosted cupcakes took one whiff and rethought their breakfast plans. My entry was first on the competitors table.
    My entry was the only one with full size pasties. Everyone else, Junior & Senior division, had  cutesie-poo party pasties. No reflection on my Grandma, but my entry only garnered a red ribbon. Second place to a poofy, petite pasty with it's glazed crimped edge on top rather than on the side (OK, I'm over it now.) My mother-in-law explained later that a top crust is the Cornish way. No photo, all food was wisely covered by white fly netting.  All was not wasted, there were still a few at home. And my toughest judge approved.

Natter on the Line

    Walking home from church this morning, I heard a familiar laugh close by.  Turning to the source, I must admit I was rather surprised.  Kookaburra aren't too numerous in the west (they are an eastern bird) and they aren't big city dwellers generally, but lo, there were Mr & Mrs Kookaburra sitting on a telephone wire.  Nearby was Mr & Mrs Galah, birds with pink heads/chest and soft gray feathers taking up space on another line. On yet another wire leading from an apartment building to the main telephone pole was a third couple, some ringneck parrots, bright green bodies with black heads and a yellow band around their necks--also called Twentyeights because of the sound they make.
    I stood there and watched the goings on...the movement...the noise...the posturing. Was this the start of some aviary rumble? Smaller, less bright, less interesting birds were keeping clear of the area as the three couples squawked on. After a bit, they all dispersed and I continued to walk home.
    I mentioned this scene to my neighbor Keith who promptly confirmed it as a daily morning occurrence he witnesses on his way to work or to buy a newspaper. Ha! Imagine three pairs of birds having their "morning tea" and chat on the phone lines.   I shall now keep an eye out for them on my morning walks...and maybe bring a few biscuits  in case I'm invited to the party.

First Tuesday in November

    The first Tuesday in November means different things to different peoples.  In the U.S., it is Election Day.  The speeches are finished, the endless smear ads are off television and we all figure out when we will go to the polls.  Get up early and go before work?  Go on your lunch break or after work. Nah, eat supper first and then go.
     In Australia, the first Tuesday is RACE DAY.  The Melbourne Cup, now in its 150th year, runs the first Tuesday in November.  Everybody gets excited.  The off-track betting locations are humming and every workplace has a sweeps going.  Parties galore with women dressed to the nines from footwear to fascinator.  Who has time to watch a horse run when women's hats are on show everywhere?! It's like the Kentucky Derby on steroids.
    Except no one gets a day off work for the Kentucky Derby.  Melbourne Cup Day is an official city holiday in Melbourne. Yes, a day off for the races.  Can't get in to the Cup? There are a couple of other tracks around to get the transcendental experience or your TV at home.  Plenty of people skipping work (cough, cough. got the flu, boss) in the rest of country to cheer on the ponies.
   Now don't be too surprised that this Land of the Long Weekend --and numerous days off-- would call off work for a horse race.  Elections are held on Saturday --as an alternative to a day off-- to make sure no one's four minute voting effort is handicapped by a 6⅜  hour workday.  More than a few Australians scoff at silly Americans for working on Election Day.
   And positively stymied why Yanks would clock in on Race Day.
   Just in : Americain won the Melbourne Cup.  Don't tell me : someone named Aussie was voted into the Senate....