A Delight-Full Anniversary

Posted on 20 March 2024 by sheg4184

An anniversary. An invitation for a secret rendezvous. A wine bar. A degustation menu of wondrous delight.

Hidden behind the petrol station on South Road is the old village of Aldinga. There you will find a bakery, a pub and an area known as the Temperance Precinct, because the beautiful stone building at its centre, built around 1868, was once Hart’s Temperance Hotel, the proverbial pub with no beer – or alcohol of any sort.

Temperance means moderation or restraint in the indulgence of the appetites or passions – which is ironic, as there was nothing about restraint or moderation in the memo. Ironic, too, the name of the wine bar in the Temperance Precinct: Fall from Grace.

Fall from Grace is the perfect place for all seasons and any events: cuddle up in the  cosy front room with a fireplace for a quiet tete-a-tete, or gather in the sunlit  garden for a birthday celebration or a wedding.

Apparently, Fall from Grace was buzzing over the long weekend. On Thursday, we had it all to ourselves. Owner and hostess, Margot Muir, gave us a warm welcome and settled us by the window with a glass of bubbles each. The One & Only chose the Loftia Vintage Brut from Kate Laurie at Deviation Road, in the Adelaide Hills. Mine was a gorgeous pink Tasmanian creation, fruity and smooth: NV Bellebonne BIS Rosé by Natalie Fryar. One glass was not enough! The Bellebonne website describes this elegant style thus:

“Made from 100% Tasmanian Pinot Noir, this is delicate pink with salmon blush and super fine bubbles. The aromas are a meld of strawberry, marzipan, Turkish delight and buttery pastry. While the flavours are subtle, there is a delicious roundness in the mouth set against a fine tannin finish with the barest touch of bitter orange pith.”

Margot Muir has worked in the wine business for years and knows her wines and her winemakers, and we had all the time in the world to talk wine with her. With shelves full of European wines, as well as many that have been locally sourced, Margot also offers an outlet for boutique wineries in the region that don’t have their own cellar door.

As there was plenty of time for a second glass before dinner, we decided to order a small cheese platter. Margot soon reappeared with two great cheeses of overly generous proportions: a taleggio-style Monte Rosso from Section 28 Artisan Cheeses in the Adelaide hills, and an Ash Grove Wine Glass Bay Vintage Cheddar from Tasmania. In addition, there was a dish of pickled grapes (Margot’s own) and another of olives.

Taleggio originally came from the Val Taleggio in northern Italy, hence its name. This semisoft cheese is washed in brine, which creates a thin rind around a silky-smooth centre. It also has a strong aroma that belies its mild, buttery, gently fruity flavour. I didn’t mean to eat it all, but it would have been rude not to. The vintage cheddar was equally moreish. Made like a traditional cheddar, this tasty vintage cheese is aged for up to 14 months.

Ashgrove’s began back in 1908 with a few sheep, and a herd of dairy cows. Brothers, Michael and John Bennett who were born and raised on the farm, produced their first vat of cheese in 1993 and have never looked back. Today they produce more than two dozen cheeses.

I could happily have mooched comfortably here all night, but eventually, it was time to peel ourselves away from this peaceful setting and wander down the hill for dinner at The Little Rickshaw.

Since we first moved to the Fleurieu four years ago, I have been hearing great reports about this small south-east Asian restaurant, but this is the first time we have managed to get a booking. It has been incredibly popular since it opened in 2019. Trip Advisor and Facebook both give it five stars, and I am happy to concur.

TLR can seat only forty diners, so it is well worth booking in advance if you want to get a table. This is not a spur-of-the-moment diner. Casual, rustic, delightful, it has been created from a bunch of sheds and outbuildings at the northern end of Aldinga. It is open for dinner on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, or you can settle in for a long lunch in the enclosed courtyard on a Sunday afternoon.

Gourmet magazine wrote that “the soul of The Little Rickshaw in Aldinga is Vietnamese, but the beautifully presented banquet menu roams more freely. Prepare to be surprised and delighted.”

We were.

In 2017, Mike and Trinh Richards opened The Little Rickshaw which apparently began its life as a café serving banh mì, but that has long since evolved into a classy restaurant, with very comfortable chairs and an eclectic collection of tables and Persian rugs. And the Chef’s menu is a fabulous exploration of Asian fusion cuisine. Thai and Vietnamese cuisines meet modern Australian in a plethora of dainty dishes that includes plenty of locally sourced seafood.

But first, a glass of Riverland Nero d’avola that rolled smoothly over the tongue and down the  throat without a murmur. I wasn’t sure that such a fruity wine was the best choice to accompany a delicately flavoured SE Asian menu, but I have a weak spot for a good Nero d’avola. Originating in Sicily, this grape variety produces a deep red thick with strong black fruit flavours and a touch of spiciness, reminiscent of Shiraz, but smoother, and is perfectly suited to the dry, warm climate of the Riverland.

Our first three dishes were all seafood based: a scallop, the size of which I haven’t seen since we lived in Sydney; a creamy king salmon sashimi, and octopus. The seafood was fresh, the textures fantastic, but I was  a bit disappointed that their delicate flavours were lost beneath some wonderful but overtly flavoured sauces. Cooked in wagyu fat and a kim chi reduction, the octopus tasted more like pork. And the creamy flavour of salmon sashimi was unfortunately overwhelmed by wasabi oil. Nonetheless, each dish was full of flavour and beautifully presented.

The next dish was based on a Chinese street food: a duck and water chestnut taro puff. The crispy, nest-like taro casing melted in the mouth to reveal the fabulous flavour of duck and the crunch of water chestnut. An instant success with us both, and a magical creation. Our host tried to describe how it was made – and sadly, the effort involved means I won’t be trying to reproduce it at home – but the lesson in how to spin taro into golden fairy floss was amazing.

An extra dish of deboned chicken wing stuffed with prawn and accompanied by a tamarind sauce was also a star turn.  I adore tamarind sauce, and the blend of chicken and prawn was scrumptious.

Trying not to flag too soon, we asked our lovely waitress to slow down the delivery of subsequent dishes, so we could pace ourselves, and she very sweetly obliged us.  Yes, it was entirely our own fault that we had pre-empted this banquet with far too much cheese,  but nonetheless we wanted to enjoy every mouthful.

Pork and cabbage dumplings, which have long been favourites of the One & Only, were followed by a spicy fried rice that we both raved about. Then, providing the perfect balance, a cool green papaya and mint salad arrived to accompany a deliciously rich serve of slow braised beef ribs.

We had safely reached the end of the savoury dishes, although it must be admitted that a small portion of beef came home with us for lunch the next day.

The penultimate dish was a light palate cleanser of fresh fig and sorbet of extraordinary complexity: lychee, coconut, salted caramel and chilli. And the grand finale? A gorgeous Vietnamese Crème Caramel served on flakes of toasted coconut and peanut crumbs with an accompanying dollop of duck yolk ice cream. Why Vietnamese? we asked. It proved to be an indigenized version of the traditional French crème caramel, made with coconut milk in a land where dairy products are scarce. Still densely flavoured, and silky on the tongue, it was definitely lighter on the stomach than the cow’s milk variety. With a whisper of crunch from the coconut flakes, and the ice-cream to soften the sweetness, it was quite the most beautiful dessert I can ever remember eating.

An evening to savour for months to come, Aldinga Village did us proud for our anniversary celebrations. My only regret was simply that walking home was not an option…

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Sticky Rice & Drunken Noodles

Posted on 4 March 2024 by sheg4184

Last weekend, we drove up the freeway to the Sticky Rice Cooking School on the Old Mount Barker Road.

The invitation suggested we “come journey around wonderful SE Asia. Full of vibrant, fresh, exciting flavours and dishes you will cook time and time again,” and we were more than willing to comply.

There was a wide range of menu options available: from Thai and Japanese to Morroccan and Mexican. I had ticked the box months before, choosing the menu I thought would strike a chord with the One & Only.  This included Korean crab cakes, Thai ceviche, Crying Tiger char-grilled beef and Drunken Noodles. It promised to be a nostalgic evening among all those South East Asian aromas and flavours we had been missing since we left Bangkok all those years ago.

Warning: this menu is not for vegans or anyone allergic to seafood or nuts. Nor is it suitable for coeliacs.

We were advised to arrive fifteen minutes early for a 5:30pm start, and by the time the clock struck, we had donned our aprons and our name tags, and we were raring to go. Daniel had given us a warm welcome and a potted history of the school. We had admired the décor and chatted briefly with our fellow students. Then Daniel introduced our diminutive Japanese chef, Yukiko, who proved to have a quick wit and a direct approach to discipline. “You can call me Yuki for short – yookee, not yucky!” And we quickly got the message that she would not tolerate her students stepping out of line! She explained firmly that we would not be given the recipes until the end of the evening. Years of running a cooking school had proven time and again that students would not listen properly to instructions if they were reading from the recipes. She probably had a point.

Carefully, Chef Yuki scanned the room and divided us into groups. Only then were we allowed to accompany her to the kitchen and find our places. Once we had been neatly arranged around three large kitchen benches, Chef Yuki ran through the rules, advising us that the knives were exceptionally sharp, and fingers must go in the white bin provided for scraps! The good news was that we were not required to do any washing up, as she had a magic trolley (like the magic coffee table if you’ve seen the comedy skit), and all we had to do was load it up with dirty dishes and utensils and leave it for the washing up fairy. The bad news was that the magic trolley wasn’t for sale.

We then chose a team leader and name for our group – “The Cassava Crackers” – before Chef ran us through our cooking instructions. It all sounded a little daunting at first, but in fact, with six cooks per group, each chore was quickly designated and almost as quickly completed. Someone took charge of the mortar and pestle, someone else braved the lethally sharp knives and diced the onions, I peeled the pre- cooked potatoes for the crab cakes with a spoon – a new cooking tip which allows me to go home and throw out all my peelers. I suspect the potato in these crab cakes is a Jamie Oliver addition, as I have rarely seen potatoes used in SE Asia. Smashed spud certainly makes for a heavier patty, converting it from light snack to a filling meal.

At some point we also learned a new trick for preparing lemon grass – well, it was new to all of us – and a quick and easy method for making lemongrass oil. But you needn’t ask,  I’m not sharing secrets. You will just have to do the class.

 We took a break about 7:30 to taste our crab cakes and sip a glass of wine – “just one,” Chef Yuki told us firmly, as she would not tolerate giggling, chattering women when she was trying to teach. Firm, but fair. We came back to the kitchen with little left to do but plate up the main courses and cook the noodles.

The lime cured kingfish ceviche was served with lime and coconut dressing. The only tricky part was learning to wield those deadly knives in a minute, then attempt to carve the kingfish into professional slivers. My efforts were far from professional, but others did better.

The steak – here’s one we had prepared earlier – was sliced and served with a wrap-your-own platter of lettuce and cucumber, mint, basil and cassava crackers, and a drizzle of dazzling peanut and lime chilli dipping sauce. Then the broad rice noodles were tossed in a sizzling wok with chicken, vegetables, and kaffir lime. (Drunken Noodles, or Pad Kee Mao is spicy and savoury, unlike Pad Thai, which has a sweeter sauce made of tamarind and palm sugar. Yum!)

Daniel poured more local wine as we arranged our beautifully prepared platters on the tables in the dining room. Then we all sat down eagerly to enjoy a delectable banquet.

So why is it called Crying Tiger, you ask? Chef Yuki says it’s because the beef is supposed to be rare, so it should drip tears of blood when you carve it, but another story is that the fat weeps from the steak on the hot grill. And despite its name, Drunken Noodles does not contain alcohol of any kind, and each story I have heard regarding the origins of its name gets wilder and wilder. I think I’ll just make up my own!

For those keen cooks coming from further afield than the Adelaide Plains, who might like a longer break in the Adelaide Hills, Sticky Rice has villas available, inspired by Balinese, Japanese and Thai architecture. Three ladies from Sydney told us they were very comfortable indeed.

It was a fun-filled evening, and we made lots of new friends over the pots and pans, wine and noodles. In fact, we felt we had made a surprisingly successful team, considering none of us had met previously. I would go up to Sticky Rice again in a heartbeat, and maybe take on a Mexican menu next time? Or perhaps an afternoon of making dumplings? And the thought of staying in one of those beautiful villas is terribly tempting, too…

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An Evening Breeze

Posted on 5 February 2024 by sheg4184

Last Friday night I lay at the feet of the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra, soaking in some truly beautiful and soothing music. Sanctuary Series 1, “Fragmentation” at Grainger Studio was an hour-long performance by the ASO. Neither perched high above the orchestra in the balcony at the Festival Theatre, or in the glorious Town Hall, at eye level with the feet of the violinists, we were invited to join the ASO in its rehearsal space on Hindley Street on a yoga mat. After some muted shuffling, as the audience settled onto seats at the back of the room or alternately on yoga mats in the middle of the floor, we were advised about the importance of silence at this event. There was to be no clapping between pieces, not even at the end. No loud noises from the audiences (snoring, perhaps?) and definitely no mobile phones. Fair enough, Standard procedure for any concert. But for me, the setting and the casual nature of the yoga mats was a first. It was as if the orchestra had moved into my living room.

So, I watched in eager anticipation as the orchestra crept quietly into their seats, followed by Conductor (and cellist) David Sharp. As the orchestra sat unmoving, Sharp stood in front of the podium, facing the orchestra. Not a word was spoken. The silent minutes ticked on. Eventually, the First Violin rose, and Sharp moved onto the podium. Again, total silence.

Then, suddenly, we were immersed in sound, as a dozen instruments tuned up. Then silence again. The lights dimmed. It felt as if everyone were holding their breath.

Now, before I go any further, I would like to warn you that I am not a musician, and nor will this be a sophisticated music review. I love listening to music, I love to sing. I played the recorder in Primary School. I played Classical Guitar in High School. Badly. I am less than an amateur. I sing by ear because I cannot read music fluently. Yet, despite my ignorance, Friday night’s performance was such a joyful experience, I needed to share it with you. And it has led me into a fascinating exploration of some musicians and composers of whom I had never heard.

Before the orchestra arrived, I had a s short conversation with the woman beside me. She was obviously an old hand to these alternative performances. Armed with rugs and cushions, she arranged herself comfortably on her blue mat. I found myself wondering if she had brought a picnic, too. And I must admit, by the end of the performance, I was envying her planning. Yet, even without cushions and rugs, the experience was fabulous. If any of my fellow listeners on their yoga mats fell asleep, at least no one snored. I was worried I might, but in fact I was so enveloped in the music and in the moment, I felt no inclination to doze off.

The orchestra was in good hands, as David Sharp, like my neighbour, had done this before. With a tiny flick of his fingers, the show began, with a lovely piece from Italian Composer Salvatore Sciarrino, called Languire a Palermo (2018). I floated off in a hammock of soft, soothing sound. Languishing is perhaps not the right descriptor though, as it was more somnolent than enervated. A post-prandial doze in a deck chair after a long summer lunch on a patio in Tuscany, springs to mind. At least until the double bass started gently rubbing the strings with his bow, like a cricket. Initially an interesting effect, it soon palled and became more reminiscent of that night-time mozzie buzzing round your ear. Sadly, for me, it then began to distract me from the rest of the orchestra. Nonetheless, it was a compelling and

Sciarrino, 76, is an autodidact from Palermo, Sicily, who now lives in Città di Castello, Umbria. His career has been long and varied. Since teaching himself music as a child, he has gone from  composer to student to teacher to writer, to artistic director,  and during that journey he has won many awards.

The second piece was Siegfried Idyll by Wagner, a piece he composed as a birthday gift for his second wife, Cosima, and presented to her on Christmas Day 1870. I uncovered this story with delight.

Cosima Liszt (yes, Franz’s daughter) was born on 24th December, but apparently she always celebrated on Christmas Day. And just to make it an even more memorable celebration that year, they had married in Lucerne the previous summer.  Wagner had met Cosima as a teenager, but they didn’t fall in love till later, unfortunately when they were both married to other people. Nonetheless, they got together and produced three children. At the time it was a scandalous affair, but presumably their wedding in August 1870 gave it a seal of respectability. Although Wagner wrote Siegfried Idyll specifically for his new wife – using five woodwind, three brass instruments and a string quintet – he was later forced to sell the music to raise much-needed funds, first expanding it for 35 instruments, which is the piece we heard.

The third piece, The Persistence of Memory, came from our home-grown composer, Graeme Koehne, presumably based on Dali’s painting of the same name. Head of Composition at the Elder Conservatorium of Music, Koehne was appointed as an Officer of the Order of Australia (AO) in 2014, “for distinguished service to the performing arts as a composer of chamber, concert and ballet music, and through substantial contributions as an educator and arts administrator.”

In 1931, Salvator Dali produced that strange and surreal painting, “The Persistence of Memory,” in which he explored the idea of time. According to critiques I have read on the painting, time is an illusion and has different meanings for different people. This painting reflects varying perspectives of time and memory, and speaks to the subconscious, to that ephemeral state between sleep and awake, as we drift off.

Koehne’s version, written in 2014, is an elegy for oboe and strings, and I presume Koehne has tried to mirror the themes of the painting in this short piece.  Only ten minutes long, it was first performed by the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra and its Principal oboist and soloist David Nuttall. It was written in memory of Guy Henderson, who was principal oboe of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra from 1967-1998. Tonight, our soloist was Joshua Oates, who has been Principal Oboe of the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra since 2020. Oates started out as an undergraduate at the Elder Conservatorium of Music Adelaide with Celia Craig, graduating with first class honours. He has worked with orchestras across Europe, won prizes and scholarships and is apparently an avid chamber musician. And this hauntingly beautiful piece was my favourite, soft as an evening breeze.

Gavin Bryars, born in 1943, is an English composer and double bass player. He has worked in jazz, free improvisation, minimalism, historicism, avant-garde, and experimental music. This slow and melancholy piece – The Porazzi Fragment – is based on an elegiac piano theme composed by Wagner more than a century earlier and completed less than a year before he died. Wagner’s wife Cosima noted that it represented his “last musical thoughts”. On his website, Bryers has this to say about it:

Commissioned by the Primavera Orchestra, and designed for the orchestra’s string formation (11 violins, 4 violas, 4 celli and 2 basses), this piece for strings alone originates in an enigmatic, and unpublished, 13 bar musical theme.

He also says that “the original Wagner music emerges eventually towards the end of the piece.”

And I realise in retrospect that there was a Mediterranean theme to this evening’s programme, as we travelled from Sicily to Spain and back to Sicily, with a strong Wagnerian influence woven through. Anyone for a glass of Tempranillo, or perhaps a Nero D’Avola? Just give me five minutes to get up from the floor…

*With thanks to Google Images

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And so it begins…

Posted on 15 January 2024 by sheg4184

“The sun is up, and the early morning swimmers are trudging up the beach, damp and dripping, to gather for coffee on the veranda at the Normanville Kiosk & Café. In dribs and drabs, the dawn patrol of dog walkers wander in. Later, as the sea begins to glitter in the morning sun, a stream of beach walkers from Carrickalinga arrive. By ten o’clock, the café is awash with swimmers, walkers, families, and exhausted puppies dozing under the tables.”

I wrote this introduction almost two years ago, in a piece about our beachside café/restaurant at Normanville. Today, the building is shiny and new, but little else has changed. The sun comes up over the hills and sets into the sea. Those early morning swimmers have not interrupted their daily routine. The dawn patrol of dog walkers still gathers at the kiosk – albeit in a new format to the one of two years ago. Beach patrols can be found on the sand every weekend and public holiday in the summer, between November 2023 and Easter Monday. On Saturday afternoon, the Nippers (aged 5 to 13) are still training to become fully fledged life savers And the new life saving club opened on December 22nd, 2023 and will be open from Wednesdays through Sundays. They do not take bookings, but already, the club is a popular spot for drop-ins looking for a drink or a simple meal.

Next door, Kenton Day has come down from the hilltop at Forktree Brewing to organize the restaurant Aqua Blue. Like its neighbour, the Surf Lifesaving Club, Aqua Blue has a broad balcony and a superb view over the beach and along the coastline. Kenton’s menu is more varied than the Burger- or fish-and-chips style next door, the prices are a little higher, and the atmosphere is a little calmer. Usually. There is also a great array of local Fleurieu Gin (FG), the cellar door and distillery located just up the road beyond Forktree Brewing. And I am on a mission to try them all this summer.

Ice cream, take-away snacks, even beer and wine are available at ground level, where no dress code prevents you from wandering up from the beach in bathers to grab a coffee or a bag of chips. Upstairs, the general tone of informality persists, but there is carpet on the floor and more comfortable seating.

Despite the glamour of the new building and the children’s playground at the other end of the carpark, this is still a bucket-and-spade beach for young families, in a sea of gentle surf where the littlies can learn to swim. Despite all the local concerns that this posh new construction would change the flavour of our traditional, down-to-earth demographic, it seems nothing much has changed – or not for the worse anyway. Maybe the council listened, and maybe it didn’t, but the rumours that the kiosk would move inaccessibly upstairs has not eventuated. The kiosk is open from dawn till dusk, and there is still plenty of seating around the lawn – albeit on a ridiculously windy corner this summer. And there is also a good sized lift to get upstairs.

We were fortunate enough to go to the soft opening for Aqua Blue a couple of weeks ago. Thanks to delays in completing the building, it was late in the day to be having a dress rehearsal, the beach already thick with Christmas holiday makers. But the staff did their utmost to make it happen, in the last moments before the official opening on December 23rd.  

A soft opening is a chance to set up a practice run for the staff, to make sure everything is functioning properly, and to iron out any major kinks. It also gives the guests an opportunity to provide constructive criticism from their point of view, and to spread the word. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much room to manoeuvre. The soft opening came only 24 hours before the Grand Opening, which didn’t give Kenton and his staff much breathing space. Yet, despite a few minor glitches, and a foreshortened menu, they did well. And we, the guests, were all behind them, enthusiastically barracking for their success, and providing as much feedback as possible.

Last weekend, I went down again, with my parents and neighbours. A fortnight later, and things were already much improved and running more smoothly. The tables, initially too tightly packed for staff to navigate easily, have been spaced out a little, the staff look more secure in their new surroundings and the full menu was in evidence, expanded from the trial run of only four dishes. Whereas Forktree Brewing has an Asian flavour, at Aqua Blue, Kenton has leaned towards more Mediterranean inspired dishes, and plenty of seafood. The entrees include three tapas options and three pintxos – a new word to me, a Spanish one, meaning small snacks on a piece of bread, often held in place on by a toothpick. (Apparently, ‘pintxo’ – or ‘pincho’ – means “spike,” hence the toothpick.)

For their main course, Mum and Dad both ordered the slow-cooked Greek lamb, which they thought was terrific, while my neighbours shared a generous and varied seafood platter. I chose the Moroccan vegetarian tagine, which might have been lacking the traditional couscous, but was still very tasty, and proved to be a hearty and warming dish on a cooler-than-normal summer evening. As a finale, we all shared a couple of deliciously creamy panna cotta with a sprinkling of crunchy honeycomb. There are child friendly options at all three venues.

Glam Adelaide claims $7 million was spent on the rebuild of the Lifesaving Club. Was it worth it? The foreshore has certainly been upgraded in the past couple of years. And when those twiggy little trees start to fill out, they will provide some welcome shade to the expanse of concrete. In a town with only a small handful of restaurants and cafes, but a large population of summer visitors, it is good to have three new and tasty options in one lovely location on the seafront.

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A Jewel in the Crown

Posted on 21 December 2023 by sheg4184

We have friends visiting from Spain, wonderful friends we met in Manila a dozen years ago or more. Friends with whom we have wined and dined at many beautiful restaurants that have featured in my blog over the years, usually at Fred’s suggestion, as he is the gourmand extraordinaire. At last, we have an opportunity to reciprocate.

Our choice? The Salopian Inn, a pretty, stone homestead among the vines in McLaren Vale. Built in 1851, its name comes from the county of Salop in England, now known as Shropshire, and its inhabitants.

I am not the first to write about this charming spot, and I certainly won’t be the last. In fact, I have mentioned it once before, many moons ago. Which is simply proof that its reputation as a McLaren Vale ‘institution’ and  its ‘Jewel in the Crown’ has been brilliantly maintained. It has even been topped with a Chef’s Hat from the Good Food Guide. And deservedly so.

Faced with the menu, we quickly succumb to the idea that the Chef should decide for us, as there are far too many choices, far too much room for argument. So we opt for the Feed Me menu, which thanks to one of our renowned companions, is particually generous. Having made that decision, some of us head down to the wine cellar to select a bottle or two, while others kept their seats warm over a large G&T. The wild gin from KIS, on Kangaroo Island is my own local favourite, but if that is not your particular tipple, there are 199 others to choose from.

Chef and joint owner, Karena Armstong is keen on the Paddock to Plate philosophy, and her menu is crammed full of seasonal produce, much of it grown in the restaurant’s own kitchen garden. There is also a distinctly Asian flavour to the menu, perhaps influenced by her time at Kylie Kwong’s restaurant, Billy Kwong. She has also worked at Bondi’s gloriously situated Iceberg restaurant, and excels at adding her own twist to traditional recipes.

While we wait for the wine gatherers to return, our waiter turns up with plates of homemade sourdough bread fresh from the oven, with lashings of butter; a timely arrival that quenches the slight rumbling in my stomach. As the others reappear, armed with a bottle of red, two plates of Parmesan Gougères land on the centre of the table. Soft, cushiony pyramids that melt in the mouth, these savory choux pastry cheese puffs are usually made with Gruyere or Emmenthal, but the Parmesan gives a lovely, light, feathery touch.

The next two cabs off the rank are a toothsome and spicy beef tartare, and fresh anchovies on crispy fingers of  gnocco fritto. A traditional snack from Emilio Romagna, gnocci fritti are usually crisp pillows of leavened, lard-enriched dough fried in even more lard, traditionally topped with mortadella or proscuitto. This variation, with fresh Olasagasti anchovies, produced on Spain’s Cantabrian coast, are light as a whisper and full of flavour.

Sashimi, as you probably know, is a Japanese delicacy of fresh raw fish (or meat) sliced into thin pieces and often eaten with soy sauce. The fish is caught with a handline, and as soon as it is landed, its brain is pierced with a sharp spike, and it is placed in slurried ice. This is known as the ikejime process, which will help to keep the fish fresh for about ten days. Hiramasa or Yellow Kingfish is renowned for its versatility and its quality. For sashimi, it is perfect. Smooth and creamy, this one is delicately smoky in flavour, perhaps due to the burnt citrus vinaigrette. Draped over pickled cucumber and peppers, I could nibble this all afternoon. And I must say, it goes rather well with my wild gin.

Chef Karina is famous for her dumplings, and it’s easy to see why when you bite into her Salopian Dumplings made from Spencer Gulf prawns with roasted chilli, cotriander and ginger dressing. We are given a bowl with two dumplings each, and I try to savour every morsel, although, like oysters, they slip down the throat far too quickly. Aphrodisiac? Undoubtedly!

The calamari salad is also quite divine. Think of the Thai dish larb gai (minced chicken salad) and this is larb with a marine twist, mixed with zucchini and lemon balm. Add in a crispy crunch from lightly fried rice, and you get a great Rice-Bubbles-style texture to the dish.   In fact, I am reminded of the Philipino pinipigs we used to love in Manila. Pinipigs are made by pounding rice flat with a mortar and pestle, then toasting or baking the flattened grains until crisp.  I’m guessing the Salopian’s crispy rice is created by a similar process.

Paroo Kangaroo is simply served on skewers, but it needs little else, for this ‘roo is as tasty as its reputation as the finest wild-game-kangaroo-meat suggests.  Paroo Kangaroo originated on the Paroo Darling River, an area known for an abundance of native vegetation, and is now sourced from four regions: Far West New South Wales, the Warrego River in Queensland, and the Central West and Northern Pastoral regions of South Australia. These yummy skewers were followed by more roo: a serving of kangaroo tail, reminiscent of osso bucco, cooked in a sweetly spicy sauce. This dish may not have been to my taste – and I am not convinced that the effort required to eat the tiny morsel of meat is worth the mess I made – but my friends did not end up needing my help to empty the bowl…

Watermelon and mint sorbet is an effective palate cleanser, but this one is also very sweet, more sugar than flavour. As the Queen of Savoury, I let it pass after an initial lick, and move on to the delectable Coorong Wild Mullet, lightly grilled, and accompanied by lentils, roast carrots and almonds. Magic!

As the grand finale of the savoury courses, we are served a succulent Kangarilla T-bone as large as a dinosaur steak, served with charred onions and shoestring fries cooked to a crisp. I think we all struggled to find the room in our over-stretched stomachs by this point. Yet somehow we managed. However, we were happy to take a breather before dessert. In fact, I remember hearing several companionds deny the need for anything more. Yet again, temptation proved too strong, and the platters were licked clean. By us all.

Dessert was a fabulous platter of truly scrumptious, highly calorific offerings: a rich and  creamy baked chocolate tart with rhubarb and strawberry sorbet; a Paris Brest filled with Hazelnut Mousse, and a Lemon Cheesecake Parfait. It all looked amazing, but needless to say, I’m afraid I tipped towards the cheese platter. Much to the amusement of our European guests, these were not local cheeses at all, but French ones: a gloriously creamy bleu d’auvergne, and an even creamier Brillat Savarin Triple Cream Brie. We assumed the third piece was also French – a generous slice of Comté, that semi-hard, nuttily sweet cheese made from unpasteurized cow’s milk, produced in the Jura Massif region of Eastern France. Yet, as I check the menu online, it might actually have been one of Kris Lloyd’s own versions of Comté, made in the Adelaide Hills from a slightly sharper goat’s milk. Whichever it was, it got the thumbs up from everyone at the table.

The Salopian Inn is comfortable, cosy and full of warm and helpful staff. It is the perfect spot for a special celebration, or simply for an afternoon of joyful self-indulgence. And, as promised, we did not leave hungry. Sadly, however, I was far too distracted by all this fine food to remember to take any photos. And, as I was driving, all three bottles of wine consumed at our table, passed me by. I am assured they were excellent.

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Aspects of Food Writing

Posted on 22 November 2023 by sheg4184

The study of food has become a hot topic in the past 25 years or so.  Most people think of food writing literally, and there have certainly been millions of words – and photographs – expended on restaurant reviews, cookbooks, diets and food-themed travel. The list of food writers goes on and on and on. Think Anthony Bourdain and AA Gill, Stephanie Alexander, or Michael Booth.  

Food writing has also become a big deal in academia, with the study of national cultures and history through food, the philosophy of food and the art of eating, with the commentaries of Michael Pollen, Michael Symons, Barbara Santich and Marion Halligan.

Food has always had a role in literature, too, and it has been particularly prominent in women’s writing, as we write about our lives, both literally and figuratively. Even Virginia Woolf, who one might think of as more cerebral than sensual, writes in a Room of One’s Own, “One cannot think well, love well sleep well, if one has not dined well.”

So, let’s begin at the beginning with children’s literature.

When Norman Lindsay wrote The Magic Pudding in 1918, it was apparently in response to a comment from his friend and literary critic Bertram Stevens, who argued that children prefer to read about fairies rather than food. Lindsay disagreed, and so we have Bunyip Bluegum and his friends. Although, let’s face it, a cut-and-come-again pudding called Albert is pretty magical, too! Food, in children’s books like this one, was particularly potent during the 1930s and 40s, what with the Depression and war rationing.

Roald Dahl instantly recognized the appeal of food for children. Chocolate, in particular, has connotations of desire and greed, envy and lust, and a hundred other moral failings. In fact, Dahl’s characters in Charlie & the Chocolate Factory depict all the seven deadly sins, while illustrating the addictive quality of everyone’s favourite candy. Yet, by the end of the tale, its popularity remains intact, and the good boy is left holding not just the chocolate bar but the entire chocolate factory.

Dahl also loves to describe truly repulsive food, such as the ‘foulsome’ snozzcumber – all the Big Friendly Giant can find to eat in Giant Country. This ‘icky-poo vegetable’ has knobbles on the outside and large seeds on the inside and tastes like ‘frog skins and bad fish’ or ‘clockroaches and slimewranglers.’

JK Rowling taps into the love deprived ad hungry child in the Harry Potter series. Harry’s first experience of magical food on demand is described here, when Harry boards the train for Hogwarts, and buys a bit of everything from the ‘smiling, dimpled’ lady with the trolley, that contains everything from Bertie Botts Every Flavoured Beans, to Cauldron Cakes and Liquorice Wands.

In Enid Blyton’s The Magic Faraway Tree there is again the potent combination of magic and food in the Land of Birthdays and the Land of Goodies at the top of the tree. Then there’s The Enchanted Castle, where E. Nesbit’s Sleeping Princess has a magic tray that turns bread and cheese into anything you would like.

Two of my childhood favourites – Little Women and Seven Little Australians – open with a chapter on the significance of food when you don’t have it. The March girls, after decrying the horror of Christmas without presents, then give their Christmas dinner away to a desperately poor family in the neighbourhood. While at Misrule, roast chicken in the formal dining room tempts the Woolcot children out of the nursery to beg for a share and incur the wrath of their father. And who could forget this passage from Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, when the neglected orphan first arrives at Lowood?

The Rectory was a great, low ceilinged, gloomy room; on two long tables smoked basins of something hot, which, however, to may dismay, sent forth an odour far from inviting…[from] the tall girls of the first class rose the whispered words – ‘Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!’

Generally, adult fictioncuts to the chase and skips the magic. Yet even here, the magic of food is used to create metaphors of love and lust, decadence, and poverty. Think of Joanne Harris in Chocolat:

There is a kind of alchemy in the transformation of base chocolate into this wise fool’s gold… the mingled scents of chocolate, vanilla, heated copper, and cinnamon are intoxicating, powerfully suggestive… the court of Montezuma… the Food of the Gods, bubbling and frothing in ceremonial goblets. The bitter elixir of life.

Then there is Laura Esquivel in Like Water for Chocolate:

Something strange had happened… it was as if a strange alchemical process had dissolved her entire being in the rose petal sauce, in the tender flesh of the quails, in the wine, in every one of the meals aromas. That was the way she entered Pedro’s body, hot, voluptuous, perfumed, totally sensuous.

It would appear even from the titles that chocolate is fantasy food for adults and children alike.

In the fiction of Katherine Mansfield, Jane Austen and Edith Wharton, dining rituals place their characters in a specific level of society. Edith Wharton, in The House of Mirth, describes the serving of afternoon tea that makes it quite clear Lily is a lady, not a farmer’s wife. In her journal, Katherine Mansfield writes of her studio lunch as she feeds her cat ‘a silver spoon of cream,’ while Jane Austen writes to her sister about the new cook, whose ‘good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness.’ No one is going hungry here, but Pearl S. Buck draws a picture of the stark contrast between a Chinese market, where ‘there were such baskets of grain that a man might step into them and sink and smother and none know it who did not see it’  while starving families must beg for a bowl of ‘thin rice gruel.’  In A Christmas Carol, Dickens describes the unselfish and gracious delight of the Cratchit family at Mrs. Crachit’s meagre Christmas offering:

Oh, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind, she would confess she had had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had something to say about it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small pudding for a large family. It would have been flat heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed to hint at such a thing.

Thus, women sit at the tea table – or the kitchen table – their offerings symbolizing the epicentre of family and the creation of culture. This is beautifully described by another Lily, the English writer and Italophile, Lily Prior. Set in Sicily, this passage from Prior’s novel La Cucina describes the life-affirming nature of the kitchen:

La cucina is the heart of the fattoria, and has formed the backdrop to the lives of our family, the Fiores, as far back as, and further than, anyone can remember. This kitchen has witnessed our joys, griefs, births, death, nuptials, and fornications for hundreds of years…

La cucina is the sense of its past, and every event in its history is recorded with an olfactory memorandum. Here vanilla, coffee, nutmeg, and confidences; There the milky-sweet smell of babies, old leather, sheep’s cheese, and violets. In the corner by the larder hangs the stale tobacco smell of old age and death, while the salty scent of lust and satiation clings to the air by the cellar steps along with the aroma of soap, garlic, beeswax, lavender, jealousy, and disappointment.

Food is also a system of communication – a way to describe far more than when and what we eat. As Marion Halligan says, ‘food is a language we all speak.’ And ‘the great occasions of our existence are often marked by meals…it is where the rea dramas of the human condition enact themselves.’

Food Memoir probably began with a shell-shaped French biscuit: the madeleine, and Proust’s self-conscious attempt to link taste and involuntary memory in À La Recherche du Temps Perdu, which was published in 1922. Others rapidly followed suite. American food journalist, MFK Fisher, blends culinary history and parable in The Gastronomical Me. Julia Child and Elizabeth David are both renowned for a plethora of cookbooks, and both also wrote food memoirs – Julia’s prosaic My Life in France and Elizabeth’s more lyrical I’ll be with you in the Squeezing of a Lemon. But my choicest example of food memoir comes from British Indian food writer and TV personality Madhur Jaffrey who, in a memory of growing up in India, describes her school lunches shared with friends of every faith and every region of India, so that lunchtime

…always filled us with a sense of adventure and discovery… [though] we never asked what we were eating. The food was far too good for that. I, a Delhi Hindu, tried to dazzle my friends with quail and partridge that my father shot regularly and that our cook prepared with onions, ginger, cinnamon, black pepper, and yoghurt.

One of my favourite foodie memoirs has always been Elisabeth Luard’s tasty tale of adventurous anecdotes and family recipes:– Family Life: Birth, Death and the Whole Damn Thing. Disenchanted with life in London in the 60s, Luard leaves her peripatetic journalist husband and a tiny attic flat in Chelsea, throws her four small children in the back of a campervan and hits the open road for a primal life in a cork-oak forest in Andalucia. Here she learns to keep and kill a pig, and cook according to the seasons.

More recent writers have indulged in the romance of eating locally and seasonally, as before the invention of supermarkets. Barbara Kingsolver goes rustic for a year of eating home grown food in Animal Vegetable Mineral: A Year of Food Life. And Barbara Santich remembers her experiences in 1970s France in Wild Asparagus, Wild Strawberries, and avidly describes the joy of eating locally.

And finally, there is festival food, where I’m sure we can all think of a million literary references to the gluttonous joys, extravagances, and dissipation of the Christmas feast.

Yet as we all hit the shops with endless lists of rich Christmas recipes, it is Elizabeth David’s more constrained response to the overindulgences of the festive season that appealed to me.

If I had my way – and I shan’t – my Christmas Day eating and drinking would consist of an omelette and cold ham at a nice bottle of wine at lunch time, and a smoked salmon sandwich with a glass of champagne on a tray in bed in the evening. This lovely selfish anti-gorging, un-Christmas dream of hospitality, either given or taken, must be shared by thousands of women who know it’s all Lombard Street to a China orange that they’ll spend Christmas morning peeling, chopping, mixing, boiling, roasting, steaming. That they will eat and drink too much, that someone will say the Turkey isn’t quite as good as last year or discover that the rum for the pudding has been forgotten, that by the time lunch has been washed up and put away it’ll be tea-time, not to say drink or dinner time, and tomorrow is the weekend and it’s going to start all over again.

As we can see from this brief synopsis of food writing, food can have a million different connotations and create a wide assortment of memories: from literary symbolism to literal recipes; from philosophical questioning about why we eat, to the cultural reflections on how and what we eat; from pure sensual entertainment to serious, cerebral analysis.

Now it’s over to you, and what you would like to add to this luscious, lascivious world of food writers…

*Most of these quotes come from The Joy of Eating, edited by Jill Foulston. Marion Halligan’s comments were copied from her book Taste of Memory. Thanks to Google Images for the pictures.

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Back to Bali

Posted on 25 October 2023 by sheg4184

I have flown to Indonesia for the Ubud Readers & Writers Festival 2023 (URWF), a fascinating four days of inspirational talks with a wealth of literary talent that is held in Bali every October. The programme introduces a plethora of writers from all over the globe: novelists and screenwriters; poets and biographers; academics and political commentators; journalists, and even a song writer. I made a last-minute decision to join the fun, and it has been one of the great decisions of my life.

As I suspected, it has got a lot busier in Bali since I last dropped in, almost ten years ago. The road to Ubud is bumper to bumper traffic, all the way. The taxi driver promises it will take an hour and a half to reach Ubud from the airport. It takes three. The views across rice paddies have been submerged under endless concrete boxes: shops, hotels, houses, more shops. The motorbikes have reached plague proportions.

Before I become too despondent, my thoughtful driver pulls into a restaurant so I can visit the WC and grab a bite to eat. And I suddenly realize that the rice paddies and lush green gardens have not disappeared altogether, they are just hiding behind the phalanx of buildings hemming both sides of the narrow road. So, I order a fresh coconut and Ikan Goreng. This is a nostalgic favourite from our years in Thailand many moons ago – a whole fish, marinated and deep fried, so you can literally pick the flesh from the bones, crispy on the outside, soft in the centre.

I relax into my armchair to enjoy a peaceful moment on the terrace, overlooking those elusive rice paddies, the palm trees heavily pregnant with coconuts. I have forgotten what real humidity feels like and am immensely grateful for the breeze that dries the perspiration on my skin and gently rattles the palm fronds. Nonetheless, I am delighted when we finally reach my hotel and I can plunge under a cold shower with a gasp, as my core temperature drops twenty degrees in five seconds.

At the top end of town is Taman Baca, with one barn-like bamboo hall and a large marquee – which has air conditioning, thank heavens! Next door, at Indus Restaurant, a large terrace overlooks the valley, and is packed with chairs where eager readers gather to meet their favourite authors. At any time between 9am and 6pm all three venues are packed, while local hotels and restaurants are hosting book launches, poetry readings, dinner and discussion, art and music events, and writing masterclasses. It is impossible to get to everything – too many run concurrently, so it becomes a toss-up – but I do my best.

The URWF is celebrating its 20th anniversary this year. Begun in the wake of the Bali bombings, it was conceived by Australian-born Janet DeNeefe, her Balinese husband Ketut Suardana, and their daughter Laksmi DeNeefe Suardana, to tempt visitors back to this popular holiday island. Twenty years on, it has proved a resounding success, and become a renowned event on the literary circuit. In 2020 and 2021, thanks to Covid, it became a ‘virtual’ event and went online, but it is now back in the real world with a vengeance. The theme this year is ‘Past, Present & Future.’ As the program says, the festival is showcasing established and emerging writers, artists and scholars ‘who will share their vision of history, current affairs and the future of our world.’

While there are all sorts of literary options, I am justifying my presence by sitting in on every session about biography, memoir and historical fiction – all relevant to my current research. Yet, between fabulous sessions with Australian historical novelists Anna Funder and Geraldine Brooks, Kurdish journalist and poet Behrouz Boochani, and Anglo-Nigerian fiction writer Bernadine Evaristo, there is still time to mingle with poets, journalists and short story writers. There are panels talking about climate change, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and political art. There are discussions on writing children’s books and crime fiction, trauma memoirs and historical fiction. We listen to talks with the women shaping Indonesian fiction and reflect on the two decades of the URWF. There were some terrific talkers, particularly when considering this is a demographic notorious for being introverted. And there were also some excellent moderators, such as Annabel Crabb, David Sly and Kirsti Melville.

Indisputably, there is a boatload of talent here, both established and emerging, but also a bright and enthusiastic array of spectators, from myriad countries, aged 8-80 years, and every colour of the gender rainbow. Ubud is buzzing. One evening, I attend a dinner on the far side of town. ‘River of Words’ is an eclectic gathering of poets, who weave magic with their words as we sip pomelo gin cocktails and nibble on a local version of skordalia spread thickly on chunks of lightly fried bread. Behrouz Boochani and the Palestinian poet Ghayath Almadhoun are joined by indigenous Australian Susie Anderson and a young Scot, Michael Pederson, with an awe-inspiring gift of the gab. We listen, entranced, and the tears flow at Almadhoun’s poem about his devastated homeland.

For four days and beyond, the flow of words and ideas is exhilarating and absorbing, intoxicating and habit-forming. My big tip is to book a flight and a ticket for 2024 as soon as possible. My smaller tip: book an hotel with a pool near the venue, so you can always pop out for a quick dip when the heat gets too oppressive. Now I’m off to cook up some Nasi Goreng and crank up the heating, and pretend I’m still in Ubud…

PS For any Redgum fans out there, I did ride on a motorbike, but didn’t crash, no Bali belly, no tropical rash, been there, done that, I’ve been to Bali too!

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Narawntapu

Posted on 8 October 2023 by sheg4184

We clamber over dunes that heap sand into my shoes,
until a broad flat beach stretches before us –
west to the estuary and east to the hills –
Sky, sand, sea, space, to the end of my fingertips,
the scent of salt and seaweed gliding past my nose.

In the distance, a mirage glimmers like water,
blurring the horizon, smudging the hills.
In the foreground, a colony of crab holes
speckle the surface of the sand like pinpricks,
like tiny craters, a miniature moonscape.

A pair of oyster catchers nestle, coyly,
at the centre of the beach,
immersed in their own world,
oblivious to their vulnerability,
their beaks a crimson beacon.

Beside the surf, a handful of horses gather,
eager to gallop yet contained.
Patient with nervous young riders,
the gentle waves nipping at their hooves,
a gentle breeze tickling their manes.

A moated sandcastle – a sand city –
crowned with grey-and-gnarly driftwood,
long bleached by sun and sea,
long deserted by its small creators,
like Mont Saint Michel, adrift in sand.

Leaving shallow footprints behind us,
we wander towards the hills.
Warily, they step back and back,
never letting us too close,
till we tire of the chase and turn home.

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Blogging 101

Posted on 16 September 2023 by sheg4184

I went to a writing class some time ago that, in retrospect, seems a little daft. Blogging 101, after I have been writing this particular blog for over a decade? So, why did I go? You might well ask. I was hoping to pick up some tips. I have altered very little on She Gathers No Moss, since a friend first helped me set it up all those years ago. Technically, I am as illiterate as ever. Economically, it is still a labour of love. I blog because some of you are kind enough to say you enjoy reading it. I blog because it’s good exercise for the brain, and for the typing fingers (all three of them). I continue to blog based on a love of writing, as well as a love for the things I write about: food, wine, travel, history…

“Why blog? What do you want to blog about?” These were the first questions our lecturer asked. I think I already answered that. Some people blog to create business, others to promote a brand. Some – remember ‘Julie & Julia’? – are lucky/ organized/clever/committed enough to make money from it. I learned that day about all the very clever things people can do with their blogs, that I mostly don’t. I try to post regularly. Generally, with new material. Two boxes ticked anyway.

Her final advice? Do what suits you and your blog. Don’t be distracted, confused or trapped by what others are doing.

OK. Great. Then I blog as if I am writing a regular newspaper column and hope I am communicating with my audience. But I guess, at the end of the day, I blog because I enjoy it. If you enjoy it too, hip hip hooray! Bonus!

As a kid, I wanted to write whole novels, but it turns out that an essay length article is about the extent of my concentration span. When I walk into a book shop and see the space piled high with books I am yet to read, I panic about running out of time. And I wonder if I actually have anything to add to this mountain of words that hasn’t been said a million times before.

Don’t get me wrong, I love-love-love bookshops. Like a kid with a box of chocolates, there’s no way I can ever stop at one. But when there is so much writing in the world, how does anyone avoid the accusation of banality, cliché, stereotype or  platitude? Isn’t there a theory that there are only seven plots in the world?

And yet, and yet…

The imagination is such a wondrous thing and language such an infinite gift that we never seem to run out of creative ideas, or new ways of saying things that we feel are worth sharing with the rest of the world. We love to play with language. To test its boundaries and invent new words if the old ones have got a little stale. Our words weave us together. Our friends, our families, complete strangers, we become united in our common love of communicating with others, of exploring language and using it for all the things we are trying to express.

But sadly, the pendulum swings, and words are being used to drive us apart. As Australians, we are being forced to choose between yes and no, black and white, fair and unfair, past and present. Our politicians are wrangling over something that we should have dealt with years ago, and they are dragging the rest of us into an expensive bidding war.

Because, let’s be honest, this referendum will cost a bomb in our post-covid world. Remember that strange moment in time when politicians acted as if money grew on trees, and we could just close down the world for months and there would be no repercussions? What have we learned from that? What will we learn from this new upheaval? Sorry, I really don’t have the answer. But surely dividing to conquer isn’t it?

I have heard both sides of the argument. And whoever I am listening to, as long as they are being reasonable and not simply racist, I believe them. Today, the convincing argument for yes. Tomorrow, the Nos. I have four weeks to decide which box I will tick. To do or not to do. To alter the Constitution in order to recognise the First Peoples of Australia, by establishing an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice, thus altering the toxic discrimination narrative of the past. (And it has been pretty damn toxic.) Or to leave it alone and avoid the toxic repercussions of an Australia divided? An us and them landscape that undermines a fundamental principle of democracy: the equality of citizenship?

Yep. I know. That concept – the equality of citizenship – hasn’t worked in the past either. Even after women and First Nations people were given the vote. We know it’s been proved time and again that our operating democracy is flawed. But how will the Voice change that?  I have heard it is better to vote yes, to open that door to improving the situation for indigenous Australians. Let’s face it, they tell me, it couldn’t be worse. Other countries have done it before without all this fuss, apparently. Look at Canada and New Zealand. So, I look. And is the situation of their indigenous people so much better for that recognition?

Point two on the proposed alteration to the constitution says that ‘the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice may make representations to the Parliament and the Executive Government of the Commonwealth on matters relating to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples.’ Not on matters relating to any other Australians, just to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. OK. Good. That makes sense.

But on the other hand, point three states that ‘the Parliament shall, subject to this Constitution, have power to make laws with respect to matters relating to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice, including its composition, functions, powers and procedures.’

So what power does the Voice actually give anyone? The Voice can advise the Parliament, but do Parliament even have to listen, never mind actually act upon that advice? And if we don’t give him the answer he wants, our wise Prime Minister is apparently promising to do it all over again tomorrow. Could that money not be better spent fixing up some of those most obvious flaws? Like Education? And the prison system?

Am I being obtuse? Probably. I swing from one side to the other like a weather-vane. I can see the good and the bad in both choices. Must I simply make the ‘less bad’ choice? Please can someone explain?

So, it seems out that today’s post is neither about food or wine, history or travel. It turns out I also blog to ponder.

With thanks to Google Images.

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Shipping Notes

Posted on 2 September 2023 by sheg4184

There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting, and enslaving than the life at sea.”  — Joseph Conrad, Polish-British Writer

Growing up in a land of droughts and water restrictions, I love the water, despite the fact that I am neither a swimmer nor a sailor. Very much NOT a sailor! I don’t mind the odd ferry, but I have never pondered much on the joys of a cruise, and heaven help anyone ever asking me on a sailing boat. I am the opposite of an albatross. Boats capsize, sails rip, anchors vanish to the bottom of the sea at the mere thought of having me on board.

Yet I do like to live near the water. The beach, a river, a lake, a large puddle. And despite my lack of sea legs, I still believe in Van Morrison’s words: “Smell the sea and feel the sky. Let your soul and spirit fly.”

I loved Swallows and Amazons as a child. And on one long road trip years later, I read Sandy Mackinnon’s book ‘The Unlikely Voyage of Jack de Crow’ out loud to the One & Only. It is about a mad Australian bloke sailing a mirror dinghy across the English Channel and through the European waterways to the Black Sea. He must have been loopy, I thought, to take on such a trip in something that would fit in a bottle or a snow globe.

Yet while I am not inclined to travel on the open seas, or even in a mirror dinghy, I have long dreamed of owning a canal boat and living the life of a Barge Woman. I may not want to sail solo round the globe, but I do rather like the notion of living on the water in a canal boat or barge, drifting along a river or through the Norfolk Broads. Somewhere only a few feet from land. 

As I research my family history, however, it seems I am constantly drawn to the sea, albeit reluctantly. So many pioneer ancestors braved the world’s largest oceans to reach South Australia, sailing from England on a trip that took months. Hannah Kent depicted the horrors of disease and sea sickness suffered on such a journey all too clearly in her novel, ‘Devotion’. As did my ancestor Mary Thomas, aboard the Africaine and “bound for South Australia… with ninety-nine souls on board.” While there were undoubtedly moments of merriment, Mary admitted in her diary that it was hard to keep up her spirits, when children were sick with scarlet fever and “the ship rolled about so nothing would stay in its place and during the night we were in total darkness.”

Then I went to Tasmania with the One & Only, and I finally began to understand the passion that others have for boats. And not just a Wind in the Willows ‘ messing-about-in-boats’ rowboat, but really beautiful specimens, made from Huon or Oregon Pine, Blackwood or Western Red Cedar.

John & Ruth Young set up The Wooden Boat Building School on the banks of the Huon River, at Franklin thirty years ago. Using the best woods available, they have invested time, money and a lot of skill into reinvigorating Tasmania’s proud shipbuilding heritage, as they work to preserve the skills of building boats from wood. A quote on the wall by master boat builder Athol Walter said: “God doesn’t make fibreglass trees”.

We arrived in time for a tour, to find volunteers and students working on the final touches of boats to be exhibited at Hobart’s Wooden Boat Festival that was just days away.

This biennial festival, which began in 1994, celebrates the rich heritage, craftsmanship, and culture associated with wooden boats. The largest boat festival in the southern hemisphere, enthusiasts pour into Hobart from all over the world.

When it began, it was a modest affair, when 180 beautiful wooden boats were moored in Constitution Dock. This past summer, 11 historic tall ships, 290 classic yachts and traditional fishing boats filled the docks beside Salamanca market., while onshore, there were a further 120 ashore boats and literally hundreds of smaller boats.

Back at base, the WBBS offers a  one year shipwright course and a variety of shorter courses that will provide students with the hands on experience to build boats, both  traditional and modern.

Apparently, Vikings making boats like these 1000 years ago using iron nails or wooden pegs to hold it together. Now, you can do a 12–13-week course to build a clinker dinghy – the tinny of its time. It is, or was, a dying trade, where timber was mostly used just for the interiors. Here at WBBS, they are trying to preserve the skills of wooden boat building, that include a clinker style method – like weatherboard – of overlapping planks. Then there is a process called caulking that provides a waterproof filler and sealant with rope of cotton or hemp ‘oakum’. A steam box is used to soften the wood so it’s more flexible, but you have to move fast to shape and fix it.

And in the meantime, I remember the joys of ‘Three Men and a Boat’ and ‘Wind in the Willows’, and dream of floating down the Thames towards Windsor with the ducks and white swans, while humming a favourite tune, Christy Moore’s ‘Voyage’:

I am a sailor, you’re my first mate
We signed on together, we coupled our fate
Hauled up our anchor, determined not to fail
For the hearts treasure, together we set sail

With no maps to guide us we steered our own course
Rode out the storms when the winds were gale force
Sat out the doldrums in patience and hope
Working together we learned how to cope

Life is an ocean and love is a boat
In troubled water that keeps us afloat
When we started the voyage, there was just me and you
Now gathered round us, we have our own crew…

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