Today is St Patrick's Day and is celebrated in Australia by wearing green, drinking schooners or disgusting green Guinness and being a lay about gutter drunk by 3 pm. Today so far I have seen Green Pancakes and revellers drinking in the pub while I scurried to get a coffee at 10 AM.
I had a thought while watching morning television on why St Patrick's Day revellers all seem to be wearing green. I assume the colours of the flag have some link to the colours they wear but on the flag also is Orange and White. I figure the link between the Green on the flag, the clover and little leprechauns gives the day a green feeling. If everyone celebrated by wearing orange it would be a day where everyone appeared to be Oompa Loompas and that would just be silly, as silly as the remake of Charlie and the Chocolate factory with the highly ecentric, crazed gentlemen by the name of Johnnie Depp.
Today as every day I go to Google Trends and find out what is searched for most at a particular point in time, today was a heavily themed Irish Day including searches for Irish Soda Bread, Irish History and also Corned Beef recipes. The last of the trends which appeared on Google made me salivate a little, a favourite food of the Irish and is served with onions, carrots, potato and cabbage. The history of corned beef started by Irish-Americans. Corned is a term used to describe the rock salt or corns of salt which were added to the broth when cooking the beef. The salted meat could then be kept for days without refrigeration when people would travel long distances by horse.
The memory of Corned Beef for me is one which I relate to my deceased Grandmother or Nanna as I called her throughout my childhood. She was a master in the kitchen with meals and delightful deserts always simmering or fresh from the oven ready to be served whenever we visited. I remember helping her in the kitchen and watching as skilful hands knew a recipe without looking it up could make perfect biscuits with the right amount of ingredients. She was a particularly good cook and St Patrick's Day remind me of her cooking Corned Beef. I assume she knew how to cook well since much of her family were stockmen and who similarly travelled by horse for long distances with no refrigeration.
The smell of corned beef would permeate my nose before I even walked through the door, the tinge of cloves and the combination of cabbage, carrot and potato in a large metal pot boiling on the stove. The meat would look to be an off brown colour simmering in a brownish broth and would look particularly unappealing to the untrained eyes of a corned beef amateur. However to the trained eye it was a most amazing sight for below that brown, bubbling broth was a large piece of meat which when sliced revealed a ruby red, flaking meat flavoured with hours of patience, cloves and an age old family tradition. In a smaller pot beside the stove was a white thick mixture, which had an intoxicating rich smell and would only go on the heat in the final hour before the meal was served, this white sauce was the sauce of choice which would run in large drips across a piping hot plate of traditional Irish American fare.
Sitting on my Nanna's small patio with the hose running; cooling the pavement and it washing over our feet we would eat plates of the delicious fare while the heat radiated off the roof. This memory seems like so long ago, I sometimes think I see her or I feel her near by, sometimes I watch elderly ladies together at cafes eating toasted sandwiches and drinking tea and wish I could sit and join them and hear their wonderful stories and admire there wit and timeless humour. I yearn to have her back to say one goodbye, but I see her in my dreams and I know she is somewhere close by watching and guiding with a gentle hand.
When I cook my next meal of corned beef I will remember her and the time I spent beside her in the kitchen watching the pot bubble and the smell of cloves and the hand stirring the end of the white sauce, ready to serve it in a thick layer over a hot lunch. I know today there will be Irish folk spewing Guinness on footpaths and yelling Irish limericks at each other but today brought a different memory for me, a chain of memories held together by white sauce and Corned Beef.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
White Sauce and Corned Beef
Today is St Patrick's Day and is celebrated in Australia by wearing green, drinking schooners or disgusting green Guinness and being a lay about gutter drunk by 3 pm. Today so far I have seen Green Pancakes and revellers drinking in the pub while I scurried to get a coffee at 10 AM.
I had a thought while watching morning television on why St Patrick's Day revellers all seem to be wearing green. I assume the colours of the flag have some link to the colours they wear but on the flag also is Orange and White. I figure the link between the Green on the flag, the clover and little leprechauns gives the day a green feeling. If everyone celebrated by wearing orange it would be a day where everyone appeared to be Oompa Loompas and that would just be silly, as silly as the remake of Charlie and the Chocolate factory with the highly ecentric, crazed gentlemen by the name of Johnnie Depp.
Today as every day I go to Google Trends and find out what is searched for most at a particular point in time, today was a heavily themed Irish Day including searches for Irish Soda Bread, Irish History and also Corned Beef recipes. The last of the trends which appeared on Google made me salivate a little, a favourite food of the Irish and is served with onions, carrots, potato and cabbage. The history of corned beef started by Irish-Americans. Corned is a term used to describe the rock salt or corns of salt which were added to the broth when cooking the beef. The salted meat could then be kept for days without refrigeration when people would travel long distances by horse.
The memory of Corned Beef for me is one which I relate to my deceased Grandmother or Nanna as I called her throughout my childhood. She was a master in the kitchen with meals and delightful deserts always simmering or fresh from the oven ready to be served whenever we visited. I remember helping her in the kitchen and watching as skilful hands knew a recipe without looking it up could make perfect biscuits with the right amount of ingredients. She was a particularly good cook and St Patrick's Day remind me of her cooking Corned Beef. I assume she knew how to cook well since much of her family were stockmen and who similarly travelled by horse for long distances with no refrigeration.
The smell of corned beef would permeate my nose before I even walked through the door, the tinge of cloves and the combination of cabbage, carrot and potato in a large metal pot boiling on the stove. The meat would look to be an off brown colour simmering in a brownish broth and would look particularly unappealing to the untrained eyes of a corned beef amateur. However to the trained eye it was a most amazing sight for below that brown, bubbling broth was a large piece of meat which when sliced revealed a ruby red, flaking meat flavoured with hours of patience, cloves and an age old family tradition. In a smaller pot beside the stove was a white thick mixture, which had an intoxicating rich smell and would only go on the heat in the final hour before the meal was served, this white sauce was the sauce of choice which would run in large drips across a piping hot plate of traditional Irish American fare.
Sitting on my Nanna's small patio with the hose running; cooling the pavement and it washing over our feet we would eat plates of the delicious fare while the heat radiated off the roof. This memory seems like so long ago, I sometimes think I see her or I feel her near by, sometimes I watch elderly ladies together at cafes eating toasted sandwiches and drinking tea and wish I could sit and join them and hear their wonderful stories and admire there wit and timeless humour. I yearn to have her back to say one goodbye, but I see her in my dreams and I know she is somewhere close by watching and guiding with a gentle hand.
When I cook my next meal of corned beef I will remember her and the time I spent beside her in the kitchen watching the pot bubble and the smell of cloves and the hand stirring the end of the white sauce, ready to serve it in a thick layer over a hot lunch. I know today there will be Irish folk spewing Guinness on footpaths and yelling Irish limericks at each other but today brought a different memory for me, a chain of memories held together by white sauce and Corned Beef.
I had a thought while watching morning television on why St Patrick's Day revellers all seem to be wearing green. I assume the colours of the flag have some link to the colours they wear but on the flag also is Orange and White. I figure the link between the Green on the flag, the clover and little leprechauns gives the day a green feeling. If everyone celebrated by wearing orange it would be a day where everyone appeared to be Oompa Loompas and that would just be silly, as silly as the remake of Charlie and the Chocolate factory with the highly ecentric, crazed gentlemen by the name of Johnnie Depp.
Today as every day I go to Google Trends and find out what is searched for most at a particular point in time, today was a heavily themed Irish Day including searches for Irish Soda Bread, Irish History and also Corned Beef recipes. The last of the trends which appeared on Google made me salivate a little, a favourite food of the Irish and is served with onions, carrots, potato and cabbage. The history of corned beef started by Irish-Americans. Corned is a term used to describe the rock salt or corns of salt which were added to the broth when cooking the beef. The salted meat could then be kept for days without refrigeration when people would travel long distances by horse.
The memory of Corned Beef for me is one which I relate to my deceased Grandmother or Nanna as I called her throughout my childhood. She was a master in the kitchen with meals and delightful deserts always simmering or fresh from the oven ready to be served whenever we visited. I remember helping her in the kitchen and watching as skilful hands knew a recipe without looking it up could make perfect biscuits with the right amount of ingredients. She was a particularly good cook and St Patrick's Day remind me of her cooking Corned Beef. I assume she knew how to cook well since much of her family were stockmen and who similarly travelled by horse for long distances with no refrigeration.
The smell of corned beef would permeate my nose before I even walked through the door, the tinge of cloves and the combination of cabbage, carrot and potato in a large metal pot boiling on the stove. The meat would look to be an off brown colour simmering in a brownish broth and would look particularly unappealing to the untrained eyes of a corned beef amateur. However to the trained eye it was a most amazing sight for below that brown, bubbling broth was a large piece of meat which when sliced revealed a ruby red, flaking meat flavoured with hours of patience, cloves and an age old family tradition. In a smaller pot beside the stove was a white thick mixture, which had an intoxicating rich smell and would only go on the heat in the final hour before the meal was served, this white sauce was the sauce of choice which would run in large drips across a piping hot plate of traditional Irish American fare.
Sitting on my Nanna's small patio with the hose running; cooling the pavement and it washing over our feet we would eat plates of the delicious fare while the heat radiated off the roof. This memory seems like so long ago, I sometimes think I see her or I feel her near by, sometimes I watch elderly ladies together at cafes eating toasted sandwiches and drinking tea and wish I could sit and join them and hear their wonderful stories and admire there wit and timeless humour. I yearn to have her back to say one goodbye, but I see her in my dreams and I know she is somewhere close by watching and guiding with a gentle hand.
When I cook my next meal of corned beef I will remember her and the time I spent beside her in the kitchen watching the pot bubble and the smell of cloves and the hand stirring the end of the white sauce, ready to serve it in a thick layer over a hot lunch. I know today there will be Irish folk spewing Guinness on footpaths and yelling Irish limericks at each other but today brought a different memory for me, a chain of memories held together by white sauce and Corned Beef.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Monday Afternoon
The time again has come to write down thoughts, feelings and ideas and after a long weekend these seem to be continuous and free flowing. I'm trying to give some solidarity to some thoughts and ideas and tangents and believe writing them out will be the best way to cement them in a timely fashion.
The first thought I have been having is about my garden or pot plant garden. I have two large established plant pots containing ferns, vines and very green looking plants, one is highly competitive and lively, the other is lacking some serious growth spurts, I am thinking of moving them around to see if the lighting is different where the over performing pot lies. I recently planted a pot of zucchini and pumpkin seeds, thinking I would buy a large trough like pot so they can happily grow in, however they have taken over and are now starting to compete with each other in a jungle like state. This week I should be replanting and growing pumpkins and zucchinis on my inner city balcony in no time. Regarding the trough pots I could do one of two things. The first is to acquire them from a neighbour who seems to have vacated their parking space in the garage or I could spend $30 each on new pots from the garden store. I am still debating my decision but am leaning towards finding the neighbour and asking for them kindly.
The first thought I have been having is about my garden or pot plant garden. I have two large established plant pots containing ferns, vines and very green looking plants, one is highly competitive and lively, the other is lacking some serious growth spurts, I am thinking of moving them around to see if the lighting is different where the over performing pot lies. I recently planted a pot of zucchini and pumpkin seeds, thinking I would buy a large trough like pot so they can happily grow in, however they have taken over and are now starting to compete with each other in a jungle like state. This week I should be replanting and growing pumpkins and zucchinis on my inner city balcony in no time. Regarding the trough pots I could do one of two things. The first is to acquire them from a neighbour who seems to have vacated their parking space in the garage or I could spend $30 each on new pots from the garden store. I am still debating my decision but am leaning towards finding the neighbour and asking for them kindly.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Tangents
Today began abruptly with the increasingly loud electronic beeping of my mobile phone in my ear and eye shattering sun light slithering through the blinds. As I do every morning, i opened the vertical blinds to see what the day had bought and discovered blue sky with a slight cloud pattern indicating the rain and showers which had been plaguing the area may have dispersed, hoping this might indicate the acceptance of a weekend away to the beach.
I found myself short of headphones as they had lost the rubber coating and would simply scrape metal shards through my ear, using another pair it was only half-way along my walk to the bus i realise I can not put my MP3 player in my pocket and the cord to my ear without one or the other pulling out, frustration ensued. As I approached the bus stop I watched as a bus enter the intersection and pull out and hoped it would drive straight but instead it turned and headed down the route on which I should be travelling, I let out a audible 'fuck' as the wait which would come with another bus was highly frustrating to a problem which could have been solved by leaving the house 30 seconds earlier. Thinking about a total of 30 seconds could solve many problems and many situations could have ended differently, for example how many steps ahead the clerics were in Pakistan when the suicide bomber ripped through the crowd.
On the bus, the same bus and route every day, I see a variety of people which also catch the same bus and journey on the same route every day, in particular today I spotted a regular couple. They hopped on at their usual spot, together. I notice them because they have outstanding features which always perk my interest and imagination when trying to decide where they work, how they live and what lives they may lead.
The couple seemed to be matched through girth and style. He wears a navy suit jacket, with no tie and an slightly dressed down striped shirt, chest hair poking through from the top. This is not what strikes my imagination into order, what does is the fact the man has hair which flows to his shoulders and seems to have been brushed carefully to do so, looking like an oversize highschool boys undercut. He must use a host of products on it to keep it straight, as it always looks somewhat greased or wet, like he has hurried form the shower to the bus stop without drying it, maybe this is to have it wave naturally and flop disgustingly over the seat on which he sits. He seems to fancy brown clothes and his pants are brown and shoes are a coffee colour, with large sunglasses with coppered looking frames with brown nearly opaque lenses. He may wear contacts underneath and they may be prescription. I imagine he is an architect in a mid-tier company operating on the 10th floor overlooking a brick wall in the city. He spends his day staring from his window carefully crafting lines and angles and using his black and white imagination to convert he red and white brick wall in front of him into architecturally sound semi-artistic houses while drinking from a coffee mug saying "Grumpy" with a picture of one of the seven dwarves.
As they sit on the bus, it stops in the city and just before the stop, they talk quietly to each other saying have a good day, kissing each other lightly on the cheek some days wishing they wouldn't ever see each other again other days hoping they would simply sit with each other on the bus and ride the rest of the route all the way home in a giant loop. They would sit at home and devour home brewed coffee and croissants while reading time magazine until lunch when they would walk to their favourite cafe and indulge in BLTs.
He kisses her and she moves from her seat, letting him pass. She sits back down and ruffles through her bag reaching for her make up case, pulling out a mirror and foundation. I sit with my sunglasses on looking into the mirror over her shoulder trying to get an image of her face, other than her side profile, from the reflection in the mirror. She stands taller than him and with quite broad shoulders, dressed in a white shirt with black skirt with a jacket 3/4 down her arms wrapping around her. She sits and applies foundation through her mirror and I see a large, magnified mascara adorned eye staring into the mirror. I wonder what type of job she does, I think she works as an accountant, in a mid-tier accounting firm in the city, however gets paid more than her husband. What drew them together was their love of the black and white, lines and angles for him, red and black lines for her.
I imagine they feel in with each other through a chance meeting in a lift and struck up a conversation about a strange band shirt he was wearing, the Beatles I would say and their love for an album and then, as they found out later, a love for a particular song. They play this song when feeling particularly nostalgic and want to get lost in once innocent romance of the past to forget about the future and live only for each other.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Bus Ride Thinking
Today, as any other day of the week, started no differently, I sat on the 199 with dark sunglasses on and headphones in. My eyes wandered between the outside world, viewed through the bus glass to the inside of the bus filled with strange people taking the same journey as myself. I often think and imagine what are they thinking, are they looking at me looking at them and thinking to themselves what is he thinking about?
I sit in the last row of the bus, the longest seat which sits five people across I do this because I catch the bus from it s first stop and therefore have a choice in seating. Most days I give myself a choice of whether to sit in the far right or far left corner of the bus, my preference based around whether the sun is out and which side of the bus has the appropriate strength of air-conditioning. I decide to sit on the far left today, the sun is out on the right side, however my seat has a tear and looks damp, I sit down anyway waiting for the soaking of water into the seat of my pants but it never comes, I sit and wait for the rumble of the bus and the first shunt of movement as it and I together begin a journey to the city.
This morning I am distracted by a faint ache in my mouth, I think a wisdom tooth is rearing its ugly painful head and I feel guilty not going to see a Dentist, knowing very well there will be other teeth related problems If I decide to attend. I also am deciding within myself about choices which have to be made in the not so distant future regarding my future as a man.
I was invited to a discussion with two fellows from a highly reputable consulting firm who I had previously emailed and who had decided to invite me along for lunch at a swanky bar. We talked and they told me about their role and what the job and the company did and how they worked. They excited me, they were different, intriguing, building themselves up a castle amidst a drowning market, invincible to even the greatest economic pressures, they saw opportunity in crisis. They told me the store of another young man who worked for them last year, who was having great success within their company, whose role was consulting to upper level executives in a class room environment to tailing a supervisor on the basin of a dusty coal mine, I was inquisitive to know more. They seemed to believe this could parallel a journey which I might undertake and sought my thoughts and feeling on taking on such a job, I said what came to mind and that was to think and think long and hard about a decision which would effectively change my life, my future, relationships and a career path I would embark on.
The job would triple my salary, send me into a remote town where I would live from Monday to Friday and fly home on the weekends, working 12 hour days with people who wouldn't respect me and who i would have to gain their trust. The greatest incentive to do this would be the money, more money than anyone I know is earning a year, more money than I know any of my peers are earning and greater responsibility. It would allow a sense of change in an ogranisation, the ability to break ground at a new level and dictate, analyse and facilitate ideas and concepts which no one would have believed possible.
I ran this idea over and over in my head as I sat on the bus watching people stare at the same flashing houses as I was, watching people sway as the bus rocked down the road and stopped suddenly for cars. I wanted to know how I could make a decision, what ideas I had, who i could ask for help. I realised it was only I who could make the choice, so I moved the idea away and stepped onto the concrete footpath stained with gum and the blackness of shoe soles, people rushed by with morning coffees and I walked slowly to the other world in which I worked, to a comfortable chair, air-conditioned room and the ability to write this blog while surfing various news websites.
Why would I want to take myself from this comfort zone and throw myself head long into a new life, where my boundaries for comfort would be seriously compromised?
I sit in the last row of the bus, the longest seat which sits five people across I do this because I catch the bus from it s first stop and therefore have a choice in seating. Most days I give myself a choice of whether to sit in the far right or far left corner of the bus, my preference based around whether the sun is out and which side of the bus has the appropriate strength of air-conditioning. I decide to sit on the far left today, the sun is out on the right side, however my seat has a tear and looks damp, I sit down anyway waiting for the soaking of water into the seat of my pants but it never comes, I sit and wait for the rumble of the bus and the first shunt of movement as it and I together begin a journey to the city.
This morning I am distracted by a faint ache in my mouth, I think a wisdom tooth is rearing its ugly painful head and I feel guilty not going to see a Dentist, knowing very well there will be other teeth related problems If I decide to attend. I also am deciding within myself about choices which have to be made in the not so distant future regarding my future as a man.
I was invited to a discussion with two fellows from a highly reputable consulting firm who I had previously emailed and who had decided to invite me along for lunch at a swanky bar. We talked and they told me about their role and what the job and the company did and how they worked. They excited me, they were different, intriguing, building themselves up a castle amidst a drowning market, invincible to even the greatest economic pressures, they saw opportunity in crisis. They told me the store of another young man who worked for them last year, who was having great success within their company, whose role was consulting to upper level executives in a class room environment to tailing a supervisor on the basin of a dusty coal mine, I was inquisitive to know more. They seemed to believe this could parallel a journey which I might undertake and sought my thoughts and feeling on taking on such a job, I said what came to mind and that was to think and think long and hard about a decision which would effectively change my life, my future, relationships and a career path I would embark on.
The job would triple my salary, send me into a remote town where I would live from Monday to Friday and fly home on the weekends, working 12 hour days with people who wouldn't respect me and who i would have to gain their trust. The greatest incentive to do this would be the money, more money than anyone I know is earning a year, more money than I know any of my peers are earning and greater responsibility. It would allow a sense of change in an ogranisation, the ability to break ground at a new level and dictate, analyse and facilitate ideas and concepts which no one would have believed possible.
I ran this idea over and over in my head as I sat on the bus watching people stare at the same flashing houses as I was, watching people sway as the bus rocked down the road and stopped suddenly for cars. I wanted to know how I could make a decision, what ideas I had, who i could ask for help. I realised it was only I who could make the choice, so I moved the idea away and stepped onto the concrete footpath stained with gum and the blackness of shoe soles, people rushed by with morning coffees and I walked slowly to the other world in which I worked, to a comfortable chair, air-conditioned room and the ability to write this blog while surfing various news websites.
Why would I want to take myself from this comfort zone and throw myself head long into a new life, where my boundaries for comfort would be seriously compromised?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
First Post
Hello fellow bloggers, this is my first blog and am very proud. I will be writing in this blog while at work because work has become minimal and using my Journalism degree has become important to me again. I don't actually know how to spell or add numbers together, but hopefully through this blog I will be able to do so.
I'm off
I'm off
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)