On carrots and music...

 I must have triggered the carrots algorithm, because tonight social media put forth to me a recipe for a Korean Carrot Salad with a side lesson in history (who knew that there were Korean enclaves in Uzbekistan and Afghanistan courtesy of Russian domestic history). 

It did look kind of interesting, but given the spectrum of reactions that have been given to the French jelly thing (I have made it again with the zest and juiced oranges as opposed to the bottle - a different experience), ranging from 

• the "oh wow! That's really good" with surprise to
• "oh, well at least it makes carrot edible" 
• (who knew my father had such strong food convictions! He eats anything anytime with scant regard to food safety practices 
• (he holds them in the same regard as wind-powered generators - 
• which is confusing as windmills were a big part of his life - 
• although makes sense because there was nothing he hated more than constantly fixing them
• )
• )
• ) 
• to the absolute refusal of a colleague over the partition
• ) 

I might give it a pass for a bit.

Last weekend I went to my parents to take them to a nearby Bigger Town to take care of paperwork required for them to get "medications at a reasonable price" (because they have both paid taxes for over 65 years) (and we failed and the 🕸️ of officiousness continues to make them squirm...) and then on to Bigger Bigger Town to meet with my sister and get The Old Fella an appointment for his teeth.

My current car is their old car, and as I am too short to put the antenna on (our garage is j-u-s-t tall enough for the car, but not quite tall enough for car AND antenna) and the drive too distant to get any radio signal without, I created a Spotify playlist of songs. Songs Mum used to play on car rides like Val Doonican, Cilla Black and Anne Murray and Dad used to play in the truck like Slim Dusty and Jimmy Little and a few songs that I have liked through the years and some songs that my daughters have introduced.

Unfortunately there was also no internet signal on the road and the downloaded songs ceased and the only other sound option was the cd that had remained in the car since forever. Helen Reddy's Greatest Hits (and wasn't that a rabbit hole - who knew Toni Lamond is her half-sister?)

When we went to see my Dad's sister and my Uncle the next morning, they got to talking about older times and how Uncle S had first met his wife to be - he has always been a bit of a character and so the tall tales and outrageous lies sprinkled with enough truth make you wonder - it involved polocrosse and country music and crutches - which  led the discussion to this song:

Mum danced and Dad and Aunty F sang along.

BurGer Memories

 Back in the 80s (funny to think of that as a point in history), my friend D and I went to university together - and we had a Tuesday night ritual of testing cocktails at the University club bar and then hitting downstairs at The Terminus in The Valley where there was no cover charge and great music to dance to and the crowd was filled with people who were either gay or gay-friendly, and the thing about being a gay or gay-friendly crowd was, bedsides the not being hit on, was the lack - or near lack - of violence within. 

The only violence I remember in The Term were when hate groups - or amped up young men from elsewhere - would invade. (*)

Sometime after midnight we would have been making such monumental decisions as - Kebab and The Beat or Catch a Cab and head Back to Mine for a BurGer.

Back in the 80s, the local Woolies had a number of initiatives to entice certain demographics to their stores.

One of the great things about being a supermarket is EVERYBODY is your target market. Theoretically, you should not fail to make a living (unless you run into modern economics where it's all about controlling the market - or even worse, some other bastard controlling the market. Ahem.)

The local Woolies had had a recent revamp - uber trendy (for the yuppie croud), quiet mornings for the seniors and the harried young Mum's had certain zones of time for their optimal shopping. Apparently if you went on a Thursday night and put your bananas in your basket a certain way you could get more than good bargains from amongst the clientele.

And back in the 80s, they had a red and black and white cardboard box with No-Name Hamburger Patties (Warning: Do Not Thaw Before Cooking) that was found in every university share-house freezer in The Big Smoke - because it was cheap as chips and it was BLODDY MAGIC in soaking up alcohol and ensuring a good night's (or 2-3 hours) sleep before our Wednesday lectures.

While the Pan warmed, our preparation was undertaken. Whatever bread available - this would depend on the local economy or whether anyone had baked or visited family on the weekend - would be slathered with cheap spread and mustard. Salad ingredients included herbs from garden pots and onion - always onion. Sometimes mushrooms. Sometimes egg. Spicy red sauce.

We would expound on philosophy, art, music, literature, fashion - you know, the self-important intense discourse often found  back at 3-4am in the 80s in student share-houses.

It's funny - a rather buff (you know that my eyeshot is shit - and D was a wearer oh spectacles too - so he looked buff at 3-4am from my kitchen window) bloke a house behind and up the hill would often emerge in the kitchen window and appear to be doing something similar - or perhaps involving a baby's bottle, who knows - and our burGers would be sizzling too.

Always absolutely DE-bloddy-licious.

(Review of said burgers on Reddit https://www.reddit.com/r/brisbane/comments/6c8ox2/those_beef_patties_that_are_like_a_centimetre/ )

(Podcast about The Terminus in the 1980s https://lostspacespodcast.com/kurt-luthy/

* - the above podcast mentions a lot about the police brutality and politics of the early 80s. I was there during the Fitzgerald Enquiry which brought to light a lot of what was going on them. According to the podcast, The Terminus when I went was when it was getting lame. Ah well.)

Sundays in Paradise

 I am slightly impressed with myself today because I cooked a French recipe. Online. And only needed to dash to the shops once for forgotten ingredients. Link to the video of the thing that I cooked

It was  some sort of healthy sweet. The recette start with whole very French looking carrots and a cast iron pot with water boiling artfully on the gas hob.

I was pretty smug at that point. I had done a decent run to the shops earlier, with the one or two things that I needed remembered, and the half-dozen things that would be good to get (whilst also bravely resisting the myriad of things that were chocolate and not really required on my hips or blood test results). 

I had carrots, although their roots were more Antipodean.

The writing across the screen was French and no doubt referred to how well the carrots were to be boiled.

As I was also making pesto, cleaning the kitchen, parenting (or at least imitating an adult legally in charge of someone who alternates between judging you on your proficiency, blatantly disregarding it and watching Mean Girls while rearranging furniture) a teenager and helping V interpret the pita options available to him - as I was also doing all of that I did let some time pass between the above and the below.

Thus the carrots did not have the evocative shroud of steam as the carrots were put into the perfectly-sized food-processor bowl - nor do I have the perfectly-sized food-processor bowl.

The carrots in my huge food-processor bowl seemed a little grainer than that of the French offering - yet I persevered.

The next text on the screen stopped my momentum.

I had failed to get orange juice. 

But that was okay because I could solve this problem. It makes for a nice change, given that I have recently received the award for worst Mum ever (my acceptance speech could have been polished but had some sparkly bits) and my magic touch does as much for healing those in pain as it has done for world peace.

Paradise is blessed with a little shopping centre, with two supermarkets - and as I had already done my earlier outing to the Colesworth, the German one got my patronage.

I had my little battle regards volume vs economy (volume won - a V8 bottle bought on the internal advice on the latter still recent enough to sway the jury) and had perused the specials before going to the counter with the green light.

The clientele was sparse but all well worth watching. A very generous lady ahead offered me speed (as in cutting in line rather than anything illicit- not THAT sort of paradise), but she nodded understandingly when I declined citing air-conditioning and teenagers.

The gentleman ahead had run short paying the ransom on his icecream. A couple moved in behind me. They were discussing the merits of iced coffee and how to pay for their waffles, drink and mountain of snacks. I had a feeling that other substances had been involved in their appetite (and possibly their economy) (so maybe that sort of paradise for some) but that was an extremely judgemental call given all that I had to go on was eavesdropping.

I paid for my little bottle of OJ and returned to my labours.

My sporadic attempts at studying French stood me in good stead.

Sugar.

Cornflour.

Darn.

I did not venture forth a second time.

They still tasted good.

Will be testing them on workmates tomorrow.

Pommes

 I remember when studying Communications at Uni, we had a mad, red-haired Semiotics lecturer of much renown in the small world of academics in that field. She adopted wholeheartedly the associated culture of her marital name's Russian heritage.  It was her cloak of Dostoevsky novels and swan feathers of sparkling white. She once was asked if she ever went to the movies just to enjoy: She was smug in her answer - "Never."

She was the reason my first free movie tickets when I worked in advertising were wasted.  

The epic ("Dances with Wolves" for those playing at home) opened with an iconic battle scene: Mud and gore and enthralling music and shadow and light and colour and sound colliding to the finale of an apple, stark and sharp, atop a post.

 I spent the NEXT THREE HOURS trying to find the hook to this literary device. I was one of the last to hold out but it defeated me. I determinedly made it to the end.

Sigh. Sometimes I dream of closure in disappointing movies.

This dream has become a living nightmare, however, in the shape of the constant reminder that we have a teenaged girl in the house.

 Post-apple detritus akin to the breadcrumb trail of h&g fame.

(Meanwhile, hidden in the fridge until the weekend are two of these - http://www.carcamoscaramelapples.com.au/product-category/gourmet-caramel-apples/

'Salina visited The Big Smoke on the weekend - and one of the regular temptations on a trip to The Big Smoke is such - she made the offer of couriering some.

I abstained. The combination of age, medications, inertia and a chocolate jar too close to me at work means that I have to be a little staunch, and I know that (a) I am better at resisting temptation when the item is not within getting distance, and (b) even if I did succeed in resisting temptation, someone else would not, and those people would likely be (i) a loved one, causing discord and familial disorder, or (ii) a burglar. While (i) is the more likely, I don't like entertaining the thought of (ii).)

I will leave you with this - at least this way, it shall not lead me into the diabetic coma that it promises in real life.

Muffin Vegan a la Pomme et au Chocolat 

It's vegan, it's got to be healthy!

So, how's them apples?