Author Archives: lorikeetlady

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About lorikeetlady

I am about to begin a new life living in Brisbane Australia after having lived in London and Los Angeles for nearly 5 years and am beginning to wonder how to develop this next step in my personal and professional life. The positive aspects are being closer to some members of our large extended family and many of our friends although we are leaving just as many in the UK. Thank goodness for phones and the internet.

“Get a backbone not a wishbone”

I recently found these words of advice for young people but it seems to me that the message could be relevant for all ages.

“Always we hear the cry from teenagers ‘What can we do, where can we go?’ 
… My answer is, “Go home, mow the lawn, wash the windows, learn to cook, build a raft, get a job, visit the sick, study your lessons, and after you’ve finished, read a book.” 

“Your town does not owe you recreational facilities and your parents do not owe you fun. The world does not owe you a living, you owe the world something. You owe it your time, energy and talent so that no one will be at war, in poverty or sick and lonely again.”

 “In other words, grow up, stop being a cry baby, get out of your dream world and develop a backbone, not a wishbone. Start behaving like a responsible person. You are important and you are needed. It’s too late to sit around and wait for somebody to do something someday. Someday is now and that somebody is you…””

 

The advice was given by a Judge in Denver, USA in the 60’s, modernised by a New Zealand Judge and used most recently by Northland College (NZ) Principal, John Tapene. Here are some links for where the above words have appeared: http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1908&dat=19831216&id=30grAAAAIBAJ&sjid=29UEAAAAIBAJ&pg=1457,8085855, http://currents.michaelsampson.net/2012/02/gohome.html

Red Poppies

In the spirit of Remembrance and hope I scattered some poppy seeds through my garden earlier this year. My delight turned to dismay as I watched the young seedlings wither only to find out that my enthusiastic husband had mistaken them for clover and had been spraying them with whatever herbicide came to hand. I managed to wash the poison from a few of the plants which thrived and they began producing flower heads. Their next challenge was to avoid being drowned with love from my mother whilst I went away for a month. My daughter tried valiantly to tell Mum that poppies like a dry summer but nothing would dissuade my wonderful parents from determinedly watering my garden.

Naturally they burst into flower during that month in the UK so photos were duly exchanged of the beauty that I was missing out on by visiting my other daughter. I was quite sad about that but you can imagine my excitement in finding there were still a few beautiful red heads adorning the garden when I arrived home, very appropriately on 11 November.

Who will rid me of this pestilent bug?

My apologies to my readers for not posting recently but when you read what I had pulled out of my lungs you will understand that I just didn’t have the energy to be creative. Just think about those long gelatinous multi-coloured snakes we used to eat as children and that is what was pulled out of my lungs.

I am doing what my husband said I swore never to do; and that is talk about my ailments. I’ll do it quickly and then on to life matters. 

 I don’t like being sick and I don’t like my family being sick. My children have numerous examples of what they call my total disregard for their physical state but I think they are confusing tough mother love with neglect. They are all still healthy, and still talking to me so I can’t have been too apathetic to their needs. My husband does confirm that my mother advised him that if he ever became seriously ill he was to come to her, as he would most certainly die if left to my ministrations.

And that is precisely what I was doing to myself. When the usual 40 laps of my local swimming pool were taxing me, I scolded myself about my indolent lifestyle and pushed myself to swim faster and further. Until one day, about mid-lap when I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs I thought about going to a GP and mentioning that perhaps I might have a chest infection. No obvious signs, a slight cough, no temperature, normal lung capacity; some cloudy patches on the x-ray, (is that a collapsed middle lobe?) delays due to GPs being on leave etc., finally a sputum culture and ahhhhh…an aspergillus infection; perhaps you should see a thoracic physician who took one look at the x-rays and immediately ordered the bronchoscopy.

I gather what was pulled out of my lungs was seriously gross so I won’t put a picture up on the page, as you would think I had been invaded by aliens. Instead I have inserted a photo of a glorious winter sunset in Brisbane, one of many that I have recently had time to sit and watch.Image

 It is very exciting to be able to breathe without choking and my makeup matches my skin colour rather than the nice shade of blue grey that I was. I keep patting my husband telling him the real me is back. There are still some restrictions (much to our credit card’s relief) on activities such as no swimming or flying for three months but I am sneaking out each day to dig and prune my neglected garden. I do not look a glamorous gardener as I now wear a mask when handling compost or manure, because I am pretty sure this is what caused the original infection when, two years ago in London I opened a bag of damp potting mix and inhaled the spores. It will have taken pneumonia, surgery and 6 months of antibiotics to finally get rid of this pestilent bug. Hurrah!

 

 

A chapel for a study

“ You don’t question some things, you just accept.” A friend’s response to a comment I had made about an aspect of her religious belief flicked through my mind as I listened to the Jubilee Commemorative Service in St John’s Cathedral. I looked around me, wondering how many of my companions were regular churchgoers. I am, not for the traditional purpose but I will enthusiastically go for a wedding or baptism, a commemorative or memorial service because I just love church spaces with their solemn dimness and the cool damp chill air that traps the aromas of incense and candle smoke. As you may have guessed I am not religious.  The bigotry exhibited by the nuns in my primary school and the taunts from childhood companions began my alienation to any one belief.  Personally, I find it difficult to justify the many actions taken in the name of religion that don’t seem in any way to conform to the espoused philosophy of goodwill to another being.

Church bell ringers

 However, whenever I travel I drag my husband and children through cloisters, churches and cathedrals. I won’t gate crash a service, but sometimes I have been lucky and chanced upon a choir or church bell ringers preparing for a service.

Then I am happy to stand, often in a puddle of colour from a stained glass window and listen with pleasure mingled with a tinge of envy to those beautiful voices.

I have become a column hugger much to my husband’s embarrassment. I lean against these trunks of stone and brick soaring skywards and try to absorb the history of its builders. I have sat through an entire service flitting like Tinkerbell examining the architectural details.  Perhaps this is why I enjoyed Ken Follett’s book Pillars of the Earth set in 12thCentury Kingsbridge, UK where the building of a new style of cathedral is the focus of the story and the characters involved take second place.

Benedict Arnold Window

Sitting through a service is no bind if I can look at the stained glass windows where saints and sinners share eternity. Churches will always surprise me. In the small St Mary’s Battersea I came upon a window remembering General Benedict Arnold keeping company with J.W.M. Turner and William Blake. I have spent an entire service contemplating windows containing heraldic coats of arms and wondering what I would include if I was designing one for my family. Think of all the lives and stories that are represented around the walls and floors of these churches, and in the surrounding gardens. My imagination goes wild with the thought of births and murders, tragedies and happiness, lives lived to the fullest and lives crushed before they have had time to blossom.  People mourned deeply or respected widely. There is so much history in a church. I love reading the plaques about artists, poets, soldiers, traitors, mothers and children. Being Australian, I was hugely excited when I discovered the sarcophagus in which Admiral Bligh was buried in St Mary of Lambeth church garden.  I couldn’t stop myself from telling some American visitors all about his amazing navigation feats.
I would love to have enough land to erect a family chapel just so that I could have a finely detailed tessellated floor and a stained glass window. Perhaps I could have a small tile made for each of the many birds, goldfish, chickens and mice my children raised, and of the wonderful cats and dogs that so contributed to my companionship.  I would have a wonderful heavy carved timber door with a huge key to enter it. There would be no place for a keypad because I cannot ever remember the numerous pin numbers I already have. Perhaps I could even incorporate a column in an outside corner as I have seen in many European buildings. I would use it as my study and fill it with flowers.

A Russian Orthodox singer

Having recently read Alain de Botton’s Religion for Atheists I do find I have a greater appreciation of the contribution to art, music and architecture that religious communities have made.  So I will continue to wander through churches and even sit through a commemorative service not because religion will contribute to my pathway to another better life but as an acknowledgement that the expression of religious belief has contributed to the sophistication and refinement of my world.

The Gods of Old Age

“Susie, he’s trying to kill himself,” shouted my mother, leaning over her balcony.

“Well he hasn’t succeeded,” I shouted back.

The gentle whirring sound was still going so I put my garden tools aside and walked next door to where my father was sitting on his very old exercise bike.

“I’m feeding my brain,” my father explained in response to my arrival. “I read that laboratory animals do better at solving complicated problems when they have a wheel to work out on.”

“So now I am living with an 85 lab rat. You silly old fool,” my mother said in exasperation. “Perhaps we should offer his body to the local Veterinary School,” I suggested.

 There is a certain amount of vanity in all this effort and my sister has a lot to blame for it. She told Dad about a ‘young looking’ chaplain who officiated at a recent funeral of an 80 year-old. The 90 year old chaplain told her he kept fit by swimming a couple of times a week. So guess who insisted on accompanying me to the local pool to swim 500 metres yesterday. I was so worried my father would disappear beneath the water and not come up I couldn’t concentrate on my own laps.

He survived the swim and has now joined the health centre, delighted with the discount the manager gave him due to his age. I wish she had doubled it.

He plays bridge, 18 holes of golf a couple of times a week, now swims and is walking the dog around the neighbourhood befriending other dog owners. He is determined to defy the Gods of Old Age anyway he can. Good luck to my old man I say and I hope I can do the same.

 

 

My first oranges

“Curb your impatience,” came my father’s voice from over the fence. It turns out we were both viewing the ripening oranges from different sides of the fence. “They won’t be ripe enough to pick until late June, but then, “ the pause and the smile on his face said it all. “Picking a fresh lightly chilled orange on a winter’s morning, taking it inside and eating it is absolute bliss.”

From my kitchen window I had noticed a flash of orange in the garden and had wandered out despite the drizzle to check the tree.  There is something immensely satisfying about growing your own vegetables or fruit. Dad and I inspected the two-dozen fruit starting to change from deep green to a pale shade of orange.

‘Not bad for a tree that has been neglected for the past 5 years,’ he commented.

Although it isn’t the most Australian of scents, the aroma of citrus blossom was the scent I missed most whilst living in London.  When the bare branches of the trees outside my window were being whipped by the bitterly cold winds off the North Sea, I would imagine being back in my small Brisbane garden with the scent of the citrus flowers wafting up in the sunshine.

My tenants weren’t enthusiastic gardeners and each winter when I visited my parents I would look across the fence at my trees that were ugly and misshapen from the Citrus Leaf Miner and the fruit would be lying unwanted on the ground where the fruit fly were having a feast.

My father who was a keen citrus grower watered the Washington navel tree in my front garden whenever he could in the hope of keeping it alive until I returned but the grapefruit and lemon in the backyard were sadly neglected and only just managed to survive.

Now back in Brisbane my first gardening project was to plant as many citrus as possible. Lawns are out, citrus my new black! In my tiny front garden I have planted a veritable orchard: a Tangelo, a Meyer Lemon, a traditional lemon, two orange trees, a Seville orange, two grapefruit, a lime tree and even a blood orange which I know would do better in a cooler climate.  I can’t wait until they are mature enough to start bearing fruit.

When I told my daughter Sophie about the oranges she sent me a link to a Radio National story about Julietta Cerin who successfully set up and organises a neighbourhood fruit and vegetable exchange market.  Neighbours exchange home-grown fruit and vegetables with each other, also jars for jams and foods made with the produce. I am green with envy at being able to do that. You can watch Julietta on Life Matters  or at Vegie Swap.

I think Sophie is a little premature in thinking I will have enough to share but Dad certainly has so many limes he could do something like this. In fact his lime tree in the front garden is enormous and bears more fruit than he and mum can possibly use either in their cooking or their Gin and Tonics.

Because Mum and Dad live on a small inner-city block, the tree spills over onto the footpath and the low bearing limes are very tempting to passers-by, who do occasionally stop and pick a couple for themselves. Being generous people my parents don’t mind, but Mum said she did get irritated recently as she watched a woman greedily fill a basket with limes. And that same woman has returned to do it again.  Some people are so greedy. I suggested Mum hang a sign from the tree saying that they didn’t mind people picking the limes, but they would appreciate a jar of lime marmalade or lime pickles in return. She is even prepared to put the jars out by the tree.

It does make me wonder whether people are naturally greedy or just thoughtless. I might be tempted to pick one piece of fruit but I would look around for someone to thank and I certainly wouldn’t do it twice.  I am now on the search for gardening forums located around Brisbane and for garden produce to share. Here are a couple of the sites I have found so far are at Brisbane Local Food and Food Connect. I am looking forward to exploring what they have on offer.

Design Siren

I am having such a wonderful consumer experience flipping through my slowly reducing pile of House and Garden magazines prior to tossing them into the bin. Immersed in the evocative imagery on the page, I forget that I am living in Brisbane and am transported off to the avenues of beautiful shop fronts in Paris, London and New York. The pages with their entrancing pictures morph into creative window displays enticing me into the salons and ateliers displaying create and desirable objects. Resistance is impossible, their lure stronger than the sirens were to Odysseus. I am not sure this form of window shopping is any cheaper as I am finding lots of beautifully crafted pieces that I can now explore and purchase from their websites. Online purchasing is just too easy. Have magazine and credit card; will post.

It comes as no surprise that the best designs endure and are valued as much today as they were when they were created and sometimes we are lucky enough to share vicariously in that envelope of design. I loved every moment I sat in the comfortable Eames chairs in my London home and they were a silent spectator to some pretty momentous times, including when my son and I toasted his impending fatherhood and my grand-motherhood.

I envy my daughter who visited the British Design 1948-2012: Innovation in the Modern Age exhibition at the V & A in London. She emailed me saying it was like being transported back to her childhood, as she was familiar with so many of the pieces. It is difficult to pin down exactly why some designs endure, capturing our imagination. The beauty of practicality and purpose is just as absorbing as beauty of shape and form.  The attributes go beyond what is just funky, quirky or of the moment to become almost visceral.

I found one such delight while reading an Elle Decoration magazine from January this year. British designer Neil Conley’s snow domes are beautiful,imaginative and clever with a wicked message. Each snow dome contains a hand carved pelican, turtle or dolphin in bronze, sitting atop a man-made stone. When shaken, black ‘oily’ snow settles over the threatened wildlife species in a reminder of the BP Deepwater Horizon oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010. Although the price tag of £2,000 is way beyond my pocket, I can still enjoy looking at them on his website at neilconley.co.uk. I am pleased I haven’t won Lotto as I would be sorely tempted to purchase one for my desk to replace their image.

No more cookbooks

I have resolved not to buy another printed book until I remove one from the nearly 2000 volumes that currently take up shelf space in our house; and that doesn’t include at least 500 cooking magazines.

Despite moving overseas and living in small apartments, we still travelled with our favourite authors.  Of course during those five years we have collected other favourites and we now have not only the huge task of unpacking nearly 100 boxes but also the more arduous task of deciding where to put all these books. Even taking the opportunity to give away numerous titles that we won’t read again, we have run out of space.

The most difficult magazines to part with are my collection of Gourmets, Australian Gourmet Traveller, Cuisine and Bon Appetite that I have collected over 30 years.  Andy was threatened with instant divorce if he even considered disposing of these treasured items. My children have decided that they will use them to make me a paper mache coffin, which I think would be sending me off in the appropriate style.

You would think I would have learnt not to buy more titles after the initial move from Brisbane to Los Angeles.However, I have vowed not to buy any more cooking magazines, well, at least not until I can find shelf space for them. So I have started to leaf through these old friends to select interesting articles or recipes and then I am tossing the skeleton out. This is more fun than looking at the family photo album as many of the recipes carry memories of fantastic meals with family and friends or of holidays inspired by articles.

And while I am going through these memories I am beginning to compile a volume of my favourite recipes. You know, the ones that you tend to make regularly because they are everyone’s favourite, or very easy and still look impressive.  I am also culling my recipe books, sending most of these to a nearby charity, as my children don’t want my old books.

So here is my list of a dozen must keeps. There are some authors to whom I have been loyal for decades such as Elizabeth David, Julia Child, and Richard Olney. Then I would include more recent cooks who know and understand the Australian lifestyle including Stephanie Alexander and Bill Grainger. Then there are the cooks who have made the transition between Australia and the more traditional UK including Skye Gingell. I would have to add Peter Gordon into that list as his blend of western and eastern flavours is wonderfully imaginative and able to be adapted to home cooking. Then for the vegetarian in the family I would add Maria Elia plus Richard Bertinet for his wonderful sourdough bread and finally because they combine escapism and food, I would include Lucy and Greg Malouf.  Naturally I would have to include many of the wonderful Women’s Weekly food magazines because they never fail to provide a dish when needed. There are so many other writers I could include and whose ideas and recipes I use regularly. This list doesn’t even begin to cover all my favourite cooks and I haven’t included web sites that also contain wonderful food ideas including the many food blogs that enthusiasts contribute to.

I would love feedback on other favourite food writers and why.

Death by mildew

Living in Brisbane is like living under a permanently dripping tap. Although our cat would be delighted with a permanent water supply, I am convinced that if I stood still I would start to be covered in ghastly black mildew.

I had forgotten just how damp living in sub-tropical Brisbane can be. After three days of almost constant showers we have mould appearing in the strangest of places. You get used to the dark spots appearing along the grouting in the shower but I wasn’t expecting the buttons in the toilet cistern to be jammed because of the light layer of mould. Yick! Actually I was hoping it wasn’t repairable so that I could justify a new toilet cistern but that was not the case. I can never understand why the women who feature in television ads for cleaning agents look so happy. Now every time I go in there I go armed with spray bottles of bleach ready to aim, fire and run for my life before the dank mouldy fingers strangle me and dump me as a symbol of the failed housekeeper that I am.

I don’t mind rainy days; in fact I like them and enjoy watching the clouds roll over the Taylor Range occluding the hillsides.

I took a photo yesterday as the cloud descended turning the landscape into a monochrome of greys.  It was a beautiful gentle light. When the sun came out it produced a spectacular contrast of heavy grey cloud against golden light.

I even managed to get into our soggy garden wearing my bright yellow wellies when it was lightly sprinkling, enjoying the slightly cooler air; all the while dreading the anticipated humidity that causes me to have a meltdown. This is when I disappear into the air-conditioning and refuse to come out almost like a whelk in its shell.

I reflect on the description of the rain we used to experience in London; there, we often had ‘sprinkles’ forecast, which is very apt but far more politically correct than the term Australians use of ‘spitting with rain’.