Seven years ago today...

...a boy young man sent an e-kiss to a girl lady woman who had caught his attention with her weaving of words and she e-kissed back in response to his stories of smiling and supermarket trolleys...

Being, perhaps for the first time in that seven years upon the date of our anniversary in a position where we could do the whole celebrate - both in terms of child combinations and manana - and in need of an excuse to test said children upon the frontier of babysitting - we proceeded to try and organise ourselves in the general direction of a night out...

(Well, one child - 'Salina would be completely fine now for us to leave her to her devices - those devices being of the i- variety - and in truth, she may well be able to wrangle Paris, but we wanted to not put that responsibility on her shoulders and come home to any forms of sister-cide).

We had sounded out Ms B - a trainee from Paris's school/daycare - on the concept of undertaking such a task, and we were so well organised that by 3pm this afternoon, it was booked.

Unfortunately, our first choice for a foodie date, the newly opened Thai with good reviews, was also completely booked, so we had a babysitter but not a venue.

Still, with the sort of determination that creates a relationship out of a 400km each-way commute, we forged on.  We prepared Paris and 'Salina - Paris sang Ms B's praises ("she is quite nice") and Salina was extra cool as only can be pulled off when you are that age and that stage of evolution.

So - after feeding the girls and getting glammed up, Ms B arrived and we handed over total control to her - we hit the road, the night next 2 hours in front of us and nary a care.

Before driving too far, our minds and taste buds were salivating at the concept of exotic tastes and gorgeous delights, and our sensibilities were busy fist-pumping the no washing up concept.

After driving along the strip a little further, we agreed to settle on not having to travel too far and getting food.

And, upon reaching that resolve, we rounded a corner and discovered the answer to that particular moment's prayers - the Tavern.

We parked as two lovebirds with seven years under out belts do - as close as possible to the entrance and  far enough away from other cars as to not get uncalled for damage.

As I walked towards the entrance, I had one of those momentous decisions to make.  

You know the one, where you come to the kerb and think "hmmm, should I go the extra short step or just clear it in one?"

At that point, the house orchestra really should have struck up some ominous music or the a bit of a trill on the trumpet, because what came next was really a "wah wah WAAAAH" moment.

Yep - I chose wrong, and therefore V suddenly felt a tug and the few patrons braving the coffee-deck got to witness the not so gradual demise of Jeanie's dignity due to an extended step and a twisty foot.

I think I heard something as I fell - I am pretty sure that my foot swore, and I may have emitted a gasp.

After the major operation of moving my carcass to the edge of the driveway, we sat in the gutter and discussed our options.  It wasn't so painful that I needed an ambulance right then and there.  We were out, the kids were safe, we were hungry and there was an eating establishment not too far from where we sat.  As I was swept up by V arose  clampbered to my pins, I determined that I could walk on it without screaming in agony, so we went on with determination.

There were enough tables that I could nab an extra chair just for my foot, so I gently advised V of my need for this setup as soon as possible and took stock of the situation.

For the first 10 minutes I couldn't actually see properly - everything was sort of black and white and rather pixellated, which made checking out the blackboards specials an interesting task. 

V found a menu that I could actually hold and adjust for the vision issues, and I saw that I would need to move my tastespace from "exotic and dangerous" to "rich and comforting" - luckily it moved with an ease I have to give it credit for.

V went up to order and brought me back a red wine (a medicinal requirement) and I crash-tackled a busboy (busgirl? busperson?) to ask for a bag of ice.

We got a chance to survey our surrounds.  The crowd was made up of family parties, groups of old friends and several smatterings of first or nearly first dates.  There was a choice of the kitchen/servery,  trotting on tele, Keno, people or fish tank views - we actually found a table that offered all of that, so pretty chuffed.

The breads came out - and they were truly yum.

It is at this point where I apologise profusely for my woeful camera skills - you can't see how light and warm and fluffy the bread was, or how tender yet chewy the crust.  The orange disc was herb butter, the yellow/green garlic - and both were delicious (although if I had to chose one, the garlic was the one - luckily V agreed and we didn't have to contemplate this)

For my main, I chose Coq au Vin, and went the veges rather than the chips and salad option (the sign of a truly upmarket restaurant, I believe, is they inherently KNOW what sides go with your dish and impose their choice on you)

That gravy there? R-I-C-H and totally yummy.  The mushrooms were awesome, the chicken cooked just right, the corn so juicy - the only very slight downside was that the veges could have had a little less time on them, but in the grand scheme of things, exactly what this little duck required.

 V went the Rump Sophia - Steak and Prawns in a creamy mediterranean sauce - they had cooked the steak to his specifications beautifully (the sign of a truly smart tavern - bugger what the chef thinks, listen to the patron) and the portions were extremely generous.

One of the upsides of tavern vs fine dining, is you can do this sort of malarkey and no-one raises an eyebrow - so you CAN slather your pumpkin and gravy over your last bits of bread and explode your buds with the tasty goodness.

I was going to wax lyrical and do a full review of the food, but the appendage at the end of my leg just gave me a hurry up and blew all adjectives regarding taste out of the water.  Let me just distill it into HUGE RICH and YUMMY.

We would have given you shots of the desserts, but we were far too full to even think about the Cheesecakes or Mars Bar Cake or Puddings - we might think about them another night.

By then, our two hours were up and it was time to take the pumpkin home and find out how successful the babysitting experiment was.

And really, it depends on your measures.

In terms of Ms B being nice to Paris, it was a success.

In terms of 'Salina and Ms B reading ALL of the library books several times to Paris in 'Salina's bed as she missed Mummy and Daddy and didn't want to go to sleep, well, that would be a tick also.

In terms of the house being quiet and Paris being abed - it was a fail.

Still, we are going to try it again some time soon - perhaps practice will improve her ability to relax into the whole "compliant and go to sleep for other people child" that goes well with babysitting.  Apparently.

Happy anniversary, honey - seven years ago, my life was blessed.  :)

(and to top off the whole anniversary festivities, we are now contemplating a medical  opinion on the foot - because I am pretty sure the signals that it is sending me are in the "you may have done damage" part of the inter-body dictionary)

Morning

(This is a poem that I wrote in about 1995.  I say 1995, but it could be anytime around then, as I was quite prolific at the time, and, as is a running motif in my life, I was excellent at keeping a system of indexing my work - ahem - to the point where I would have considered it aberrant behaviour on my behalf to be remiss in recording the date and status of mind, except - well, except that always has been the case in my life (hence the running motif reference) to the point where it isn't working at all and I have to rebuild a new system - and apparently, as I discovered this evening, such a schism in organisational prowess seems to have occurred about exactly when this poem was penned. Anyway... once upon a time.)

MORNING

Day breaks

                And unrested, alone I wake.

I rise with slumber’s rage

Without the pillow of another spine,

My arms around a chest entwined:

Sleep leaves me best when I arise

With another -

                and shower and wash

                away the night’s devotion,

Massages me with body lotion;

Feeds me well, gives caffeine hits -

                I am soon unclouded of morning mists.

Yet this day crests,

                And alone am I, too.

And I say

                “Poor me”.

                “Poor you.”

Mum's Magic

When I was a kid, my mother was magical.  She kept her secret potions in her red make-up case.  She also had a treasure-trove of vitamins, tonics, powders and pills (and had the skills to use them) in the tupperware container in the kitchen.

Did everyone's mother have a make-up case?  They were hard and quite three-dimensional and were often placed beneath the Mum's feet in the car on trips, or regally towards the left of Mum's dressing-table.  If you were a very, very good girl, you got to go into Mum's Room and gaze upon the wonders that were in her make-up case.

It was always "Mum's Room" in my experience. Occasionally, if he had somehow kindled a feeling of warmth and regard, you might refer to it as "Mum and Dad's Room" but you and he both knew it was a concession of love.  There was, indeed, "Dad's Side of the Bed" and "Dad's Drawers" (upon which lived folded handkerchief's, a notebook, loose change, the other watch and mystery objects), "Dad's Toilet" was a luxury we all aspired to and "Dad's Chair" (a beauty that still exists in our living room, thirty-five years after its fortuitous entry into our lives through a one dollar raffle ticket from the Eidsvold Sport's Day), but there was a definite leaning toward the "Mum owns everything in the house because" philosophy in my childhood.

But I digress.  (and Dad did have does have quite a land claim on some of my childhood memories)

Mum used Oil of Ulan.  It was beautiful.  It smelt so luxurious and the little dab we were allowed on our fingers were so smooth and rubbed in to such a soft dream of nothing on your skin.  But you must never, never, never, never, never go in to Mum's room without being allowed to.

The living room used to be right next to Mum's Room.  The house was an original design, the sort of warren that exists from the family home emerging from an outstation heritage.  One where unexpected doors offered entry into rooms that geographically should not adjoin.  I didn't know, during my childhood, that there were homes out there that didn't have this feature.  Our home did, as did the majority of our neighbours.  Cupboards that were secret passages to other rooms did exist.  Laundry chutes were of the seventies child's secret dreams, and when they were discovered, always coveted.

The doorway between these two rooms, in my memory, were double doors with square panes of that gorgeous rough glass that worked so well behind paper with decent crayon action.  It is possible that my siblings may have attempted such feats without the paper.

These doors were permanently open - however the doorway ensured privacy with a curtain of green beads - circles and rectangles and diamonds and spheres.  We were NOT ALLOWED to tug on them or race through them but these ILLICIT ACTS were so tempting - especially when you had siblings who were fun to laugh with and make noise with and play with.

Mum's Dressing Table was heavenly.  It had little drawers and boxes with treasures beyond imagination.  If ever anything was needed in any part of the house, no matter how obscure, and the finder asked "Mu-um, do you know where the (insert obscure object here) is?" the answer would more often than not be "have you tried the dressing-table?" - and so often, by magic, this was indeed the hiding place of the object required.

The May Post

I have not been very chatty on here of late, mainly because I am currently half-way through working in a 3 month gig that is big on involvement and short on what I can actually share.

Here are a few random snaps, however, that I have gathered...

Saturday night - or the journey that led to the recipe that led to late night philosophizing...

Good evening all. (tap. tap.) Is this thing on?

A funny thing happened on the way to the post - I would be lying if I said this has happened oft of late, because the inspiration space in my brain has not been activating much in a blogly direction of late.

It is a downside of regular employment, it seems.  Still, they pay me for the use of quite a lot of my brain, so the worky sphere has sub-let a fair bit of the arty-farty blog warehouse (which includes the old poetry cupboard towards the back).

However - it seems an old grant application has been found beside the filing cabinet and so some pity funding has been thrown in that direction, requesting a prospectus for a post, and congratulations, your reading of my blather is one of the proposed outcomes of the project.

(Nah.  Actually, that is pure bs.  Its just that I am in front of a computer and actually engaging a part of the grey matter that apparently has a sick sense of humour involving charity, the arts, funding submissions, submission bodies, artists, bureaucrats, citizen rights, politics, the economy, multimedia, media rooms in McMansions AND theoretical studies in the sociological adaptive behaviours creating the interface between lexicological sculptors and the oozing clay of the minds of the masses... Que?)

How did it all start?  

I think I need to go back to Pearl's post for the day. (Take a moment - enjoy the detour - "Local woman tells of teens has Nervous Walk Back to Office") 

which led to a conversation with a blogging friend regarding the use of "Bless" with various organs and clothing options, 

therefore I went to her cooking blog and commented on her "Not exactly a how to post" 

- because I too have a love affair with garlic and an understanding of the reaction of the non-participant in romantic settings;

and I have a love affair with a dish I have always known as:

"Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic"

(totally coincidental - I first ate and fell in love with this dish at a friend Lisa's place.  Lisa and I have another friend called Lisa who was there on the day, and I also have another Leesa in my life -  and V and I had a discussion this evening on how all of our Lisas are pretty cool chicks - here endeth that aside)

Ingredients:

• Chicken (d'uh) - the meaty stuff rather than boney and oily stuff (thighs are good but if mixed bits are better value at your local, don't let it hold you back, okay?  You could do a whole chook, you could do drummies) - about the equivalent of a chook's worth (4-6 thighs, 8 drumsticks - whatever works)
• 40 (at least) cloves of garlic (and the really excellent bit of this recipe - you don't need to peel the suckers!!!  Total win.  Makes you want to reach for 60, but stick with the recipe - ish - first go around.)
• 1 bunch shallots (look, try other oniony varieties, too, because I have learned in life that one woman's shallot is another woman's spring onion, and so maybe you are right and I am wrong and I am not going to stand in your righteous path!)
• Butter or oil (I am not judging you)
• 3-4 carrots - peeled (because I am in camp "peel your carrots" but you may have noticed, I am not here to fight your ingrained attitudes) and medium-ly sliced
• A good handful of green beans
• 8 whole baby potatoes
• Chicken stock (don't make excuses for "I only have cubes" - I know cubes, I grew up with cubes, I am just going to look away and we can pretend it didn't happen)
• Fresh white crusty bread - any shape - if you must spread, go the butter on this one...
• (In the original recipe, that Lisa got from some famous TV chef's cookbook - I always thought, for some reason, it was Jamie Oliver, but I asked my old mate google for the recipe for Rootie in response to her response to my comment on her post on garlic - keep up - it honestly kept trying to point me to a heap of wonderful recipes called "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" that weren't the "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" I knew from Lisa's recipe, and the closest thing that linked Jamie Oliver with any of the recipes for "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" was TV chefs/cooks and bloggers who had made all manner of varieties of "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" and who had also made or linked to Jamie Oliver's "Chicken in Milk" recipe - which I have also tried cooking and we weren't convinced - and anyway, as I was saying, I am pretty sure that the original recipe for "Chicken with Forty Cloves of Garlic" also called for Vermouth or Verjuice or some other ingredient starting with "Ver" that I have never had on hand - thus I have never used it, and as this is me blogging the experience I shan't include it in my ingredients list because I have never ingredied it in any attempt at replication).  Anyhow.
• Thyme.

Method:

• Turn your oven on to 160 degrees C (that is a slow oven - about 315 F)
• Heat the oil and/or butter in a heavy based big pan that you can put on the stove and in the oven.  If you don't have that, use what you must - it means less washing up for me AND I have one, so that is what I do.
• If you must season the chicken, season the chicken (I didn't put seasoning up there in the ingredients section - if you use it, it's automatic, if you don't, then you probably would really enjoy it, but the little voice inside your head that makes you shirk from the salt cellar will probably lessen your enjoyment of the taste sensation with sensationalist rants regarding health and longevity - your choice, free country) and then brown it, skin side down, until it is crispy (or you are sick of doing it)
• Take the chicken out, put the garlic cloves (without peeling - gotta love that and celebrate at every possible point), carrots, beans, baby potatoes - swizzle them around, chuck the chicken back on board, just cover with stock and sprinkle in some thyme.
• Bring to the boil, chuck on the lid (or assemble it in the other dish that you have because you don't have the versatility available in your cooking equipment - I highly recommend getting married to close that chink in your resources) and put it in the oven for a good long time - a couple of hours.

Serve with crusty white bread and good friends.   The oozy garlic (squeezed out of the skin - enjoy every moment of that not peeling the suckers while raw) is blissful spread on the bread, soak it in the juice, even kids eat all the veges in the pot - make sure everyone that you want to kiss partakes with gusto.

Enjoy