Those restless flies. How many did you ingest?

The heat was evident early on. The previous night, one slept restless. This is often a sign of change in weather. We decided to go and visit a large book-barn situated not far from here. It is called Berkelouw’s Book Barn. It has books but also an indoor/outdoor restaurant and wine-bar. Berkelouw specialises in both new, second hand and antique books. At this particular venue in the middle of a vine-yard, they also hold weddings. On special requests one can also organise a ripping funeral as well. Something to keep in mind for the future. It would be rather nice to be buried surrounded by friendly books. They are so forgiving and don’t hold grudges.

I was rather chuffed to read that Berkelouw’s actually started their book shop enterprices in my birth city of Rotterdam in The Netherlands. Here a link;
http://www.berkelouw.com.au/pages/about
Do please read this fascinating bit of a successful Dutch family’s migration to Australia.

After Helvi and I arrived at Berkelouw’s book bar we decide to have a coffee and browse through some books. We wanted to find large print editions of John Mortimer’s memoirs. The heat by then was getting hotter and with our dog Milo in tow I went straight to a table in the shade of a large conifer. Conifers always give shade and welcome humans for rest, giving a free renewal for mind’s spirit. A sustenance not easily obtained in pre-Christmas shopping malls! While Helvi was inside browsing Mortimer books, I ordered a Margarita Pizza and changed the coffee into two beers instead. You can see the two glasses of beer and the table setting at a photo on top of this blog.

I don’t know why this is so, but flies in Australia are almost an institution. You rarely see politicians being interviewed in the open air without battling swarming flies. They fling their arms about as if seeking flight. It is known as the Australian wave. The flies too are housed comfortably at Berkelouw’s. Especially after a pizza arrives. When the Margarita arrived to our table, the flies knew they were in for a treat. I understood why most of the people were inside. It took bravery and persistence to eat outside. Even so, it wasn’t too bad if you kept one arm free. One had to be tolerant, and imagine that the black spot on your slice of pizza moments before inserting it in your mouth was just part of an olive instead of a fly.

Of course, the setting of this book-barn is absolutely mouth watering. Just look at that row of poplars above the table. Next door is Berkelouw’s vine-yard. The whole place is built out of local sandstone. Superb architecture of stone and wood with magic fireplaces in use during winter. The flies are a minor issue, really. One could easily imagine being in Tuscany or even a French country-side somewhere north-east of Montpellier. At the end of our lunch I had eaten at least twelve flies and Helvi reckoned perhaps eight or nine. A small price to pay for such a lovely setting. The Margarita was great. Fresh herbs, especially the basil was spot on. We will go again but perhaps after a good thunderstorm. Flies usually disappear after a good storm. At least, that is what we say. It gives comfort.

You have now been ‘encrypted.’

Yesterday wasn’t a good day. I received a bill from our energy supplier. This same supplier, AGL (Australia Gas Limited) enticed us with a quarterly deduction of $5.- if we paid our bills ‘paperless.’ Going ‘Paperless’ is now the latest fad sweeping the world. You can tell, by the confident strides of people on the world’s pavements who now go through life totally ‘paperless.’

A common question and a good way to start social intercourse at parties is to ask, ‘are you paperless yet?’ Or, less common and sometimes seen as a bit of a friendly reminder or slight rebuke; pardon me Sir, your lack of ‘paperless’ is showing. At those internet quick sex of Romance and Introduction websites, some now ask to show their PL status. ‘Gent, 68 years of age, fully PL and NS, NG, ND desires a nice fulsome woman with some desires to go PL, seen as an advantage but not necessary for a jolly relationship.’

Yesterday was also the inauguration of our latest acquisition, a mini-pizza oven. We always wanted to get back into pizza’s and pizza cooking. This pizza oven fits on a table and made in Mexico of stone. We bought some special hardwood kindling. We thought we would first try out some marinated Angus Porterhouse with foil wrapped spuds and a couple of red capsicums.

This was before the ‘not so good’ came about. Let me explain. I usually hold off going to my computer to check e-mails or the latest hurricane making landfall. The coffee and early mornings’ spousal natter always takes precedent. After the ‘how did you sleep’ with ‘how often did you go to the toilet’ gets over, we heave ourselves from the sofa. Milo knows the ropes and precedes us going upstairs. Milo is followed by Helvi and then me. We switch the computers on. Milo slinks under our desk. It might be another two hours before we take him for his walk. He knows and resigns to this routine. He still gets miffed why this takes so long.

After I perused the news and open the inbox for a flurry of messages to blacken up my screen. I delete many, especially the enticements for Twitter and Facebook paraphernalia. I do answer most of the kinder posts and gradually follow the black list of inbox mail to the very bottom. One of the E-mails was by AGL to pay a bill and take advantage of doing so ‘paperless.’
‘Download your Statement,’ it urged me on, in its devious and pernicious manner. It also said; Thank you! (including the exclamation mark) THAT should have been a warning. But, I am not the sort of man that picks so niftily up on the mind of criminals. True, I do pick up deviousness in Strata monsters and have a well developed sense of people drunk on Body Corporate power, but for serious internet crime, I remain pure.

As soon as I pushed the ‘download’ on the AGL bill, all hell broke loose. I was asked to ‘run’ and ‘open’ the statement, but no statement came. I pushed again and again. Then a warning popped up to draw my attention that my files hade now been locked and encrypted. I needed to pay money to unlock my files within 72 hours. If not paid within that time, the amount would be doubled. I was given an ultimatum. It also infected my home-screen with the above message. I could not get out of it, no matter how I closed everything or re-opened again and again. I was so furious and spent hours googling for an answer. There are lots of help lines and web- sites. They too are often Malware/Ransomware sites. It is a mine-field out there. Microsoft did not give me much hope. They did say that many just pay up and get their files back.

Anyway, I have an American Friend from California. A man who from way back was interested in computers before they even came about. He steered me by phone to do this and that but mainly go through a very long scanning process. Each time I had pressed the ‘download’ button I invited the ransomware virus. It finally went and my home screen is again showing Milo. There was still time to fire up the Pizza oven and it was fantastic. The meat and spud just timed perfectly. The capsicums nice with just a hint of charcoaled skin.

All is well, but it came close to murder.

Peace and quiet for overwrought Seniors.

Our Pizza oven at Rivendell.

With all the shenanigans on the political and abusive side of life in Australia last week, I am really ready for garlic prawns or a good solid potato bake, perhaps even both. The prawns as an entrée and the potato bake with just some tuna in between the thinly sliced potato layers with leeks, and some sun-dried tomatoes might just do the trick. Well, not strictly sun-dried. This our last jar of home bottled ‘pizza oven’ dried, not strictly ‘sun-dried’ tomatoes. It just sounds better. Let me explain.

While finally now on our last jar of those sun-dried tomatoes, it brought back memories. We left our farm in 2010. I should now heave, perhaps with a sigh, and question where all the years have gone? That’s what many people over seventy do. Don’t they? Agile readers might well remember the large pizza oven I built while living on the farm. It was huge, and one could at a pinch, even have slept in it, as well as making pizzas, although not at the same time. I would not be the first one to sleep in a pizza oven. In Russia, many a husband after coming home drunk would be refused the share of the matrimonial bed by his stout and possibly very formidable wife, and told to sleep off his stupor on top of the stove instead.

The first attempt at building the pizza oven was disastrous. I underpinned the arched brickwork with plastic tubing while laying the bricks. The mud-mortar was nice, with the cement, lime and bush-sand mixture of the right sloppy consistency. It sat nicely on the trowel. A joy to work with. As the arched brickwork reached towards the middle from both sides I noticed a slight but ominous wobble. I should have stopped then. Helvi and our daughter were sipping tea watching me at work. I felt justified in being proud. It could well have been the reason why I continued on, despite the structure with its wobble clearly telling me to stop and let it dry out till the next day.

We all know that arches are very strong. Look at Venice, nothing but arches where-ever one looks, from bridges to buildings. Even some people when ageing, form an arched back, allowing them to go on, despite life’s tragedies or because of it. It might have been my foolish pride in front of Helvi and our daughter (sipping tea in the Northern sun) that made me go on. It might also have been the challenge that, if I could reach the middle and close the gap between both arches coming together, there would not have been a chance in the world it could ever collapse. An arch in brickwork is almost indestructible

Alas, hundreds of bricks went a flying. The plastic tubes buckled. My immediate reaction was that of total dismay. I worked for days, cleaning the old bricks I had scavenged elsewhere. I had poured the concrete floor base on which were built the walls that would carry another concrete base that had to carry the actual pizza arched oven totally enclosed on four sides but allowing a small door for fire-wood to enter and the pizzas to be cooked. The secret of a good oven is the total insulation of all the walls including the floor. My pizza oven had two layers with generous insulation between each layer. Even the chimney consisted of inner and outer stainless steel pipes. Helvi thought it was a work of art. And it was.

After the collapse, the initial moments of dismay turned into unstoppable laughter. I knew Helvi was genuinely and lovingly concerned, but our combined love for the ridiculous always takes over. What was one to do? Call an ambulance or the cops? Just ride with it, was the only answer. I got stuck in building proper formwork the next day, and re-built the arches again.

It was a great pizza oven. It would be used for pizzas, roasts,  sour-dough breads and drying those delicious small tomatoes that just about grew anywhere.

A lovely memory.

The conversion to ePub plus MOBI.

‘Tantalising close,’ would be an understatement. ‘What price would you like to sell your eBook for, Gerard?’ Can you believe it? Yet, this was the question put yesterday while filling in a form to convert the book ‘Almost There,’ to a format called ePub plus MOBI all done by the Australia Society for Authors. It hit like a bolt from the sky. But that wasn’t all. Try and understand how it felt when reading on the same form; ‘Please provide details of the bank account into which your sales revenue should be paid.’ Your name of account, the BSB number and account number. ‘Your sales revenue?’ Joy, oh joy!

I could hardly believe it and neither did Milo. Out of the goodness of my heart, I gave him not one but two raw chicken necks. He looked perplexed but did not muck about, burying one neck for later consumption. He is prudent when it comes to his food larder. Only yesterday, while digging at the front garden I uncovered one of his beloved pig’s ears. He was watching me. I left it near where I found it and after leaving the garden I observed him re-burying it again. I suppose, it had not quite reached the level of dead carcass decay that Milo likes when consuming a pig’s ear. It explains where that broodingly dark smell comes from when Milo is sitting between us on the console of our car just inches away from our own faces.

We are al prepared and ready for the onslaught. The grandkids are coming over. The school holidays are on again. We have stocked up on half a litre of cod-liver oil and promised if they behave they will get a nice treat. Last time, just a few weeks ago at Easter, they managed to use up our monthly allocated Telstra data in just two days. We only ever use up about 1/10th of our monthly data. Just imagine how quick kids can rack up bills for their parents? In our days we would be lucky to get a spoonful of cod-liver oil for our birthdays. Or, when times were really good, get a pair of hand-knitted grey coloured socks. By the way, cod liver oil as sold in the past in liquid form is now mainly dispensed in very silly and expensive little gelatine sugar coated capsules. However, Price-Wise chemists still sells this wonderful golden nectar in its full liquid form. So, rip into it while it still lasts.

The latest controversy about the effects on health by eating sugar might well bring the liver oil back into vogue. I can see people crossing the street, slurping it up. Cafés will be selling it as ‘liver oil latte.’ And liver pizzas. The return of slim people

Anyway, the book is ‘Almost There.’

Playing in the Sandpit of publishers.

Table setting.

We all know that hard-cover publishing is hurting. The figures on downloading electronic books from Amazon and the likes are staggering. They seem to be in opposite tandem with the drop in selling  newspapers made from real paper. The toilet roll still hangs in there; but for how long? The number of plies and widths are diminishing already. I believe in Japan there are now paper-less toilets. You down- load a special app, push ‘delete’ after finishing ablutions, pick your fragrance and Bob is your uncle. I suppose with both hands free you can sit on the toilet and manoeuvre all sorts of  apps  and paperless ablutions. There is now a glut of paper but it allows the Finnish Forests to spread out and re-grow. A win win for the ecology.

It is fascinating how publishers hang in there. A real learning curve. You get an automated reply that the submission has been received with some uttering kind words, ‘ you have made your first step,’ but also, ‘we will read your submission which could take eight weeks.’  ‘If you don’t hear from us it means we will not ‘pursue’ your submission any further.’ Some salve the wounded pride and nurture failure with  referrals to doing a course in ‘how to improve your writing skills.’

The top of the pick of publishers are those urging ‘frankness’ in not sending manuscripts simultaneously to different publishers. Yet, the first time book writer is expected to, ever so sweetly, wait eight weeks. Yet no courtesy in return from the publisher in replying in the event of a refusal. Let us assume you send the thing to about ten publishers that have a waiting list of six weeks before not replying. That is sixty weeks of waiting in not hearing a single response. Nice work if you can get it.

We had a pizza last, the ‘Napoli with anchovies.’  I ordered a black beer and Helvi a light. The local pub has taken on the big change in incorporating the best of both worlds. Nice food, cosy comfortable surroundings and now very much family friendly. Lots of kids. Both of us watching young kids running around. Children are naturally inquisitive and enthusiastic. They can’t take a straight step. They skip and hop, fall over and look at everything. The seas still have monsters and the forests full of fairies. Why are we not skipping anymore, I asked Helvi? How come we don’t sit in a sandpit?

Helvi, with her infinite clear insight, answered; ‘that is because when you get older you have learned that there is not much to skip about!’ It is food for thought. I offered that we might just have to do a different kind of skipping. Perhaps sitting here eating the Napoli Pizza with anchovies, watching kids hop about is a kind of skipping too. ‘Sure dear, I love watching them and it passes the time.’

How’s your pizza? The same as yours, seeing we always buy the same Napoli together. What a banal question. Are you tired?

The day had been difficult. I thought I had lost the entire manuscript. I could not find it. This computer seems to sometimes assume a life of its own. It shifts, skips and moves about. I finally found it in a totally different location. I was so upset and H kept urging me; ‘don’t feed your anger.’ ‘You will find it.’ ‘Take a break.’

Easier said than done. We all need much more time in a sandpit.

 

 

Jingle Bells, jingle bells…jingle cash registers.

It is that time again. You can see it in their eyes. The quickening in their walks to the super-market. An edginess in the voice. ‘Father Christmas is coming to town’. More and more shopping malls are employing experienced  female  ‘father’ Christmases.  With all the sexual abuse of children coming to the fore, the last bastion of male domination has been abandoned. It is frightening is it not? Not a religion or faith has been spared. The clergy are now queuing up at courts and even distant Cardinal’s finest damask mitres are starting to wobble. In any case, children are deemed to be safer  on mother Christmas’ knees than on the old bony but jolly male version. Soon, prams and mother will line up to get the obligatory photo taken. The transition to the female Father Christmas has been seamless. No worries at all. Father Christmas is sulking and his reindeer off their moss.

On a 7.30 am ABC rapport, a warning was issued that even though for most this pre-Christmas period it is a happy time. Not for all. Families get together, enjoy a nice dinner. The giving of presents. The Christmas tree taken out of the box, branches all screwed together, all electrically lit up inside a cosy lounge. The outside of garages, eaves, doorways and even gutters also all alight with festive multi coloured twinkling lights. The shops are full of buckets and buckets of those lights and it is a competition like nothing else. Neighbours trying to out-do this latest race to have the most intricate lit up exterior.  The MacMansions are of course unbeatable when it comes to large areas being able to get lit up. Some of those now look as if driving past an air-port or Las Vegas.

The warning on the program touched upon that charities were stretched to the limit. That family violence was already picking up and that the time of partner and wife abuse was always at its worst during the period leading up to Christmas. Someone commented on another program that in the hours at the end of the last shopping day on Christmas eve, financial transactions are peaking at 250.000 per SECOND. There has to be a connection between that and outbursts of violence. Where is the money coming from?

Are we all somehow joined to cash registers? Has capitalism managed to convince us that happiness is only available at Westfield shopping Cathedrals. I remember a pair of hand knitted grey socks hanging from the chimney back then and perhaps a toy or two. A meccano set. Dad’s rare cooking skills came out in making fondant sweets that he made from molten sugar and some almond essence poured into  small metal forms. The Christmas tree was real and so were the candles and dad’s fondants hanging from the pungent smelling spruce-tree. The streets sounds were muffled by snow and all was real. No electronic nervous sounds. Christmas had a smell and  it was so real. No plastic or racing twitching lights, or drunken brawls . No garbage cans afterwards spilling over with un-eaten food, rotting hams or pizzas  eaten out of a box. The lonely prawns abandoned on the nature strip.

It was so peaceful then and it was real.

Is Cooking a Thing of the Past?

Are we still cooking or are husbands coming home with a pizza box?

It always surprised me that during the last few years we were living in the smoky city of Sydney, houses in our street often sold at the drop of a hat (with, more than likely, a bucketing rise in their value).

Home and kids were commodities to be shifted around like so much else of temporary society. It was a way to the top and to the promised land of the financially ‘arrived.’

This was not always so. During our first stay in the inner city, many years ago, houses were cheap and affordable even to ‘normal’ people. They would then stay put and bring up their kids. Seeing the same faces at the same address was part of a daily routine for many years.

We had steady neighbours with just the one car and lots of billy-carting kids and cubby houses. The area was safe during day and night. But this idyllic life did not last.

It was when the Merchants of The Inner City Estate Brigade marched in and ratcheted up with ambitions so foul, with dollars and fortunes to be made, that the temptation for many was to sell up, satisfy mortgage lenders, move on elsewhere and far away, possibly without debt and have money to spare.

We stayed put and watched with amazement the conversion from humble terraces to belching mansions. In came remote garage doors and out went the kitchens, sinks and all, replaced at great cost with the latest Italian number: granite bench tops and one-handled hot and cold taps looking plucked from an expensive private doctor’s surgery.

After ten months and yet another owner, out went the Italian and in came the Swedish model. The Smeg appliances, food processors, micro ovens so large they could be sub-let to small families; mosaic timber butcher’s blocks on gleaming caster-driven trolleys and matching knives that could slice a buffalo.

Sadly though, amongst all this frenetic moving of kitchens and people, there was a noticeable drop in those familiar afternoon cooking smells. You always knew when dinner time was on its way, didn’t you? Fried onions and lamb chops and kids hanging around the doorways. Dads strolling down hills from bus stops, tired but peckish, and hopeful dogs waiting for scraps.

All that went when making a buck started to reign over cooking and kids and familiar neighbours. The smells disappeared for ever. Despite (or because) of that gleaming kitchenware, the cooking became too dangerous to the kitchens. A scratch could ruin thousands of dollars worth of stainless steel. The extractor fan could foul up. The knives could blunt. With the loss of cooking smells, so went the kids and billy-carts. But sellers of burglar alarms did well.

But hang on, what about all those cookery books and watching TV with Nigella and Jamie and all those delicious recipes? Ah, that is just to look good. A bit of make up for the kitchen.

Next morning the Domino or Pizza Hut boxes were piled up in the garbage and, in the meantime, the value of the investment house (not a home) had gone up an amazing, oh, $276, and that in a single day! Anxious mothers would not let their kids take the safe walk to school anymore. Instead, they started driving them in those Darth Vader vehicles and fear became the Joker in the pack.

Are most kitchens now just mock ups or stage sets, just for future open house inspections? No onions or anchovies will cross those Pine-o-Clean spaces again, thank you. We are too busy, preferring to feast off increased values. Hopefully, the downward trend in real estate is temporary and prices will rocket once again soon.

Or is there hope in values going down? Will the kitchen take its rightful place and food smells return? Just imagine a crisis so severe cars and petrol become unaffordable, house prices plummet and the art of cooking is resuscitated. Billy-carts and kids will return; dads will stroll down hills from the bus.

Or is that just pie in the sky?