66 shades of grey

66 shades of grey
66 shades of grey ... this pic of me was shot by Kim, of Kim Thomsen's Photography at Daly Waters in the Northern Territory. Kim just wandered over and asked whether it was OK to get some character shots.


The cross is in front of the church in Karumba and it seems TV antennas have a greater reach for the sky.


I went fishing out of Nhulunbuy on the Gulf of Carpentaria. We anchored in a bay about 10 hours from Nhulunbuy and went ashore. This poor fella had been snared in the locals' overnight net and then had a run-in with the resident 14-foot saltwater croc - named Nike by the local indigenous fellas - and came off second best.

the rock

the rock

oodnadatta track

oodnadatta track
What a tough place to live ... this is out on the Oodnadatta Track


My photo
G’day, I’m Michael and I have two fantastic grown-up kids. I’m a jeans and singlet/T-shirt, cowboy boot, tattoos sort of fella, who knows a bit about this and sometimes a lot about that. I'll have a crack at most things, although having a relationship? ... well that ship has sailed. I'm past my use-by date anyway, so I'm gonna make it all about me and surviving life as I know it ... or make it.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Bingo, it's fresh wasabi

Recently, I sussed out the possibility of getting fresh wasabi in Melbourne and the only place I could find it was on the interweb thing through a Tasmanian company.
So what a great surprise this morning to be wandering through the market … yeah, I bought more Spanish anchovies, some verjuice, a few deli bits and pieces and a baguette … there was a sign at the organic shop “fresh wasabi”. Hello.
The very friendly woman went through its paces for me and gave me a taste … apparently you should wait five minutes after it has been grated because then it hits full power.
And what power. My days of buying the prepared stuff (it’s mainly horseradish because wasabi doesn’t last longer than two weeks) are long gone.
It’s not cheap … about $10 for a piece about 10 centimetres long, but that doesn’t matter.
It’s going to get some sort of workout at my place this week
I was sitting at Claypots have a celebratory beer after finishing the shopping, well pleased with my wasabi find. I’d also bought a new baking tray (there’s a Mediterranean tart in the oven as I type … OK, it’s out. The oven alarm just went off), a barbie scraper and a filtered, refillable water bottle for work.
A good beer it was too. I was people watching while I drank the beer and had a smoke. There was a group of five sitting beside me having a feed and a chat. Then another bloke arrived and did the rounds, shaking hands with the blokes and then he pecked one woman on the cheek and went to the next woman and shook her hand.
What sort of message is that?
Got me buggered perhaps even a little more than the couple (plus kids) who walked by at that time … he was carrying a small plastic bag while the missus was straining with a huge box of fruit and vegetables. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt … maybe he had a crook back although he was walking bolt upright. Just not a good look And if his back is OK, then he was an ill-mannered bugger.
Anyway, enough. The tart is smelling up the house a treat. It’s time, qalbeit a tad late, for lunch.


What a great way to start the day.
I was walking to the tram the other morning (God, I don’t really like being up at that hour … I reckon we should only recognise one eight o’clock a day and it’s not the first one) and a twenties couple was walking towards me.
The girl said: “Good morning, mister, I see you around here a lot.”
“Morning,” I chirped.
I am around the neighbourhood a lot and am pretty well known by lots of locals and the shopkeepers, although I reckon I’m avoided by a lot because of the way I look i.e. hairy, unshaven, blue singlet and tatty jeans, tatts, cowboy boots … I mean, what’s not to like? OK, plenty, but that’s me.
“Are you famous?” she asked.
I didn’t have to think too long about that. “Nah,” I said, “Have a good one.”
It lifted my already high spirits.
My mood was lifted to greater heights later in the week after talking to my son, Liam, in Vanuatu.
His girlfriend, Dan, was in Australia having cancer tests and she came back with, thank Christ, some positive news.
I’d spoken to the boy several times during the week and have never heard him so down.
I actually went within an enth of flying over there on Thursday to offer some support. Fortunately I didn’t because he was planning to be in Sydney that day to be with Dan.
Suffice to say, Dan is back in Port Vila … and the news is good, and they have a great opportunity now to build on their love. I hope they get married sooner rather than later.
As he said to me, “Maybe you’ve got to have a great kick in the guts to put you back on track.”
Amen to that.
I am so looking forward soon to meeting Dan and spending time with them.
I also got to spend some time with Joel, my youngest son. He works dealing poker and stuff at the casino and really works shit hours … 10pm to 6am and the like, so when he’s not working he’s trying to sleep.
To prepare for Joel, I hit the market last Sunday and made a beeline to South Melbourne Meats (stall 32), where the meat is brilliant.
I bought a fantastic boned, butterflied lamb leg that was marinating in oil, herbs and spices. We had some spuds, greens from the garden, vine-ripened tomatoes and cucumber and we smeared the lamb with some thick yoghurt with garlic and a few chunks of cucumber.
I gave it 15 minutes on either side on the barbie … reckon next time I’ll cut that back to 13 minutes. Not that there was anything wrong with it … just could have been a tad pinker.
It’s great to see your kids come on in leaps and bounds and that certainly sums up Joel. I always treasure what little time we get to spend together. He’s a good level-headed influence on me.
And these days, he even eats his greens.


Speaking of the garden, I’m really pleased with most things happening there … I’m getting a few feeds here and there … but it’s also wonderful to see flowers on the potted gardenia.
It holds a special place for me as it was a gift from quite a while ago. I don’t have a great record with gardies … I knew a girl once called Gardenia, aka Gardie … but this one looks as if it will go the difference. What a perfume.


Former Australian fast-bowling legend Rodney Hogg was a bit close to the bone on Twitter on the weekend.

@RMHogg To all our New Zealand friends, there are only twenty eight shop lifting days to Xmas


I revisited The Montague Hotel during the week for what I hoped would be one of its trademark steaks, and I wasn’t disappointed. It was a cracker.
My friend and I had eye fillet with hand-cut potatoes and wasabi coleslaw (which is brilliant). Mine was ordered rare and so it was … perfect. The pub also does great bread and has real butter on the side.
We washed it down with a bottle of Pizzini Sangiovese, a great match with the beef. It was soft, full-flavoured and very moreish. We rounded off the night with a bottle of Oomoo sparkling shiraz, just what we needed. Yeah, right.


It doesn’t seem like 10 years since I renewed my licence, but apparently it is.
The renewal notice arrived during the week and it was good to see that I’m entitled to a discount because I haven’t lost any points for the past three years.
Just for the record, I have never lost any points, full stop.
My dodgy driving record extends to a speeding ticket when I was 18 … and that was in another century.
Reckon I’ve done enough to warrant a free licence.


It has been a big week on the grog front, sort of.
I decided to stock up the grog fridge with a (current) favourite, the chenin blanc from Sword’s at the South Melbourne Market, so I grabbed a case. And given that the weather has been warm, the temptation has been getting the better of me. Reckon another case will happen sooner rather than later.
I also treated myself to a 2009 Chateau Brondelle Grand Vin from Bordeaux. Treat being the operative word, given that it was (I think) 35 bucks a bottle.
One French review I read explained it: Fine nose with a lot of expressions and nice hints of fresh and mature fruits. A charming mouth slightly fat with a nice complexity. A greedy finish… full of fruits.
I couldn’t argue with any of that … it’s on the money, especially “the greedy finish”. It was a treat with no regrets and went especially well with some toasted sourdough with shallots through it, some Meredith goat’s fetta, smoked ocean trout and some greens from the garden including a handful of finely chopped dill.
I reckon I also found my next favourite of the summer … OK, two favourites, especially for hot days.
I had a tasting of Seven Oaks Farmhouse Bramley’s Seedling Cider on Saturday morning. Yeah, the sun was over the yard arm somewhere in the world.
What a sensational morning drink it would be if I did drink in the mornings (I don’t unless it’s the really small hours).
The cider is made by Lisa Cresswell from Merricks North … she’s a good woman and passionate about her cider … and it’s a dream of many years that has finally come true.
She uses the traditional “wrack and cloth” method to extract the juice. The apples are pulped through a macerating machine and wrapped in a cloth, similar to hessian, and pressed to extract the juice, before fermentation.
The end product is a cracker.
At just 2.9% alcohol, (it’s 11 bucks for a 500ml bottle, but worth it and then some) it’s easy drinking. A half litre bottle is equivalent to just 1.1 standard drinks.
It is seriously summer apples in a bottle.
I also had a crack at a new beer … Black Heart Brewery’s American Brown Ale.
In terms of taste, this is one big unit and it is seriously good. It’s a dark brown colour, has hops and malt to burn, and has hints of chocolate on the palate. Like the label says, “it can pass for dessert in a glass”.
It’s 5.6% alcohol and it’s available at Sword’s.

Sunday, November 13, 2011

To market, to market ...

Since Scott, the Hire a Hubby, got my barbecue fired up, it has been getting quite a workout … I’ve had more barbies in the past week than I managed in the past two years.
Last night’s was a cracker. Marinated lamb backstrap (olive oil and herbs), thinly sliced potato and onion (and garlic), big, thick asparagus spears and a salad of fennel, tomato and oak leaf lettuce. It was made all the better with a bottle of chenin blanc from Swords.
I put the mandolin to good use … gotta used it more.
I buy all my meat at South Melbourne Meats (stall 32 at the South Melbourne Market) and I can’t remember even getting anything but the best and the service is as friendly as all get out.
It was about an hour and a half market trip, chatting to the various stall holders (yeah I even went to buy some wine for Anna, the woman who runs a stall that sells everything from garbage bags to paper plates and serviettes … and shitloads of things in between).
And you know that you’re really in your comfort zone when you walk by Paul’s Jeans Shop at the market.
The time was right for me to invest in a new pair, given that there are now iron-on patches on the iron-on patches of my last but one pair.
I just walked up to Paul and said: “The usual, thanks.”
Without batting an eyelid, he went to a pile, went down about a dozen pairs, grabbed one and stuck it in a bag.
No need to try them on, no need to tell him the size, he knows what sort of creature of habit I sometimes am.
And he gave me a price cut … that’s I guess not for everyone, after all I have been buying my straight-legged Levi’s from him for about 25 years.
What amazed me though was the lack of attention people pay to the fruit and veg that they buy. I watched as so many people just pick up the first thing they grab … no close examination … and plonk it in their basket.
The bloke in front of me at the till had a huge basket of bits and pieces, all loose and mixed together. So do you reckon that he helped the woman on the till, you know, put the nectarines together, the apples together, whatever, just to help out. Not on ya Nellie.
I looked at some of the things he’d bought … bruised, spotty and the like. Some of these things creep through given the volume of the produce that goes through the place, but why not leave ’em on the shelves and take the time to make sure you’re getting the best. It only takes a smell here, a squeeze (gently) there and a quick look.
It’s about time to fire up the barbie (it’s 9.30 on Sunday morning) for a breakfast of bacon and eggs, asparagus and some toasted sourdough with shallots mixed through it.


Finance has been on the agenda. I was hoping to do better than my four and the sup effort in Tatts last night, and it will happen.
I spent almost an hour and a half at the bank on Friday sorting out a couple of new accounts, something I should have done a while ago.
Reckon it’s a first … I will actually get something from the bank rather than the other way around. It’s a few grand a year in my pocket.


My mate Ben, a tenor who does some work with Opera Australia, looks as if he has stitched up a tour of China at the end of the year. I think he mentioned involvement with David Helfgott … and almost two dozen concerts all up.
I’ll hopefully get some details when I catch up with him for a glass later in the day.
By the way, Ben’s company can organise whatever you need … from a solo singer serenading you at dinner or a fully staged musical spectacular. He reckons nothing is impossible! Gotta get him working on my personal life if that’s the case.
You can find Ben on Twitter @Loganmusicevent


It was great to hook up with to hook up on Twitter with Luke Gillian, best described as a cricket tragic and a really good bloke.
I’ve bumped into Lukey at various places watching cricket. I first met him at dinner in Adelaide with a heap of cricket journos and our paths have crossed many times since. The most recent was a while ago and I was sitting at a café in Albert Park and he walked up, sat down and filled me in on his latest travels.
He runs Waving the Flag (at http://wavingtheflag.com). Have a look at the site and you’ll get some idea of just what a legend he is. He hasn’t missed a Test for yonks anywhere in the world.
He’s rated by the players in a big way, so much so that when he attended his 100th Test (it was in New Zealand), the players invited him into the inner sanctum to sing the celebrated Under the Southern Cross. Reckon he might have even carried the drinks during a county game in England.
I remember being at a Test at Eden Park in Auckland (it was when Warnie broke Dennis Lillee’s Australian wicket-taking record) and at the end of the game the whole team saluted Luke.
Yep, they really rate him and his support.
Luke’s putting together a tour of the West Indies (cricket’s holy grail) … go to http://www.wavingtheflag.com/tour.asp?TourID=57 and have a look at what’s on offer.
I reckon I met Luke in Trinidad many years ago … and if you fancy some cricket and some partying (OK Port of Spain really is a party town) … get to it.
Luke’s tour would be a great vehicle for a great time.


I used to go jogging/walking every morning with a great friend, Gaynor. Yeah, it was 7.30 each day and I'm on the record as only recognising one 7.30 a day ... and it's not the first one.
Anyway, we used to do five kilometres each morning and usually we'd finish up with a coffee and a cigarette on the way home. For a bloke my age, there was always a good feeling hangin' with a 24-year-old .... but I digress.
The coffee shop we went to had a tradition ... with every cup of the essence of the bean, they served a shot glass ... God knows, I'd have been happy if it was a vodka ... but it wasn't. It was a shot glass full of soda water, designed to get rid of coffee breath. It worked. But that bullshit aside, anyone walking past and seeing a boofhead and a young girl drinking shots at that time ... no doubt they thought we were legends.
I reckon every coffee shop/cafe should do it.


I had a chat to my son, Liam, in Vanuatu this afternoon … and he’s in a really good place.
He hasn’t had a cigarette for a week and he’s cut right back on the singing syrup. Two beers on Friday night is the extent of it.
He has been hitting the pool and gym every day … he actually woke at four this morning and got up and headed to the pool.
I wanna go on the record here that he never got those genes from me.
He’s trying to stack on some weight (please, take some of mine). He said that his appetite is going through the roof.
“I put on three and a half kilos on Saturday,” he told me: “I’m eating huge amounts.”
Suffice to say that he’s going through a “let’s be positive stage”. His girlfriend has just been diagnosed with thyroid cancer (again) and she’s just about to head off to Oz for tests, although the preliminary diagnosis (in Vanuatu) looks positive.
I wish her much love on the journey to recovery.


The time is right to clean up the act. I've booked a haircut for next weekend ... it has been about a year ... and I'm hitting the weights ... time to ensure that when summer finally comes, I'm half a chance ... whatever that means.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

The heat is on ... and on ...

When you are, in the old money, a bit over 6’3” and about 13½ stone or so in the old money (yeah, the weight loss has kicked in and stayed … it’s down eight kilograms … and yes, I know I’m mixed up, but who understands kilopascals anyway?), you are considered a big unit.
A big bloke, right? Someone who should be able to do the things that blokes are apparently meant to do. You know, like putting together a barbecue.
Yeah, right.
I started as soon as I got the bloody thing home and after an hour and a half, I packed it all up and went to sulk with some cans of bourbon and coke.
Then I phoned Bunnings to ask for help. Sure, someone said, bring it back to the leisure centre and someone will help assemble it. Weather intervened and I postponed it for a week. Then I thought that I’d better phone again and confirm that some sucker would help.
Nah, they said, you should never have been told that we’d help. “Phone our installation assist people. There should be someone there who can help.”
It’s one of those services, and I use the term loosely, that makes it very hard to actually speak to a human. When I finally did, I was politely told to call a company called Hire a Hubby.
Now that’s just what a bloke needs to hear. Here I am, a single bloke, and I need to hire a hubby.
Of course I didn’t cop a lot of crap from my friends … right.
But because I proudly boast on this blog that, yes, I’m in touch with my feminine side, I did the honourable thing.
I phoned Scott, my soon-to-be Hire a Hubby.

And what a good call it was. He arrived at the appointed time, but again weather intervened before he could put his talents to use.
The following Friday, he reappeared at the appointed time (now there’s a first, a hubby who comes when he says he will).
And this Scott is definitely one big unit. He looked like he’d stepped straight off the set of a reality TV show.
But, most importantly, he’s what my old man would have described as a champion bloke.
We chatted sport, wine, women and song, while he achieved what I’d found impossible. He put together my barbie.
But the clincher was when it came time to settle the bill (which was a reasonable as all get out), we were standing in my kitchen (OK, I was having a bourbon … Scott had to flee to meet his girlfriend who lives not far from me, otherwise he probably would have at least had a beer).
He asked about the picture of a girl on my fridge door.
I explained and he looked at me and said: “Geez, you were punching above your weight.” No away I'd argue with that. She's The One.
It was the clincher because he was honest. That’s just what he thought.
I’d certainly recommend giving Scott a call. Reckon he could probably do most things that you can’t … and in my case, that’s plenty.
The next morning on the barbie, I made a mushroom bruschetta … beautiful olive sourdough bread, field mushrooms, plenty of butter and to serve, a sprinkling a chopped chervil.
It doesn’t get a lot better … at least not until dinner, when I cooked a rare (it almost had a pulse) eye fillet, some mushrooms and asparagus. I threw it on a plate beside a salad of oak-leaf lettuce, tomato, fennel and cucumber, dressed with lemon-flavoured olive oil.
Reckon it’s welcome back, red meat and I’m gonna spend more than my fair share of time in the yard applying the heat to dead beast.


Living as I do in the inner southern suburbs, I pay for the privilege of parking outside my abode. Yeah, I get a sticker that entitles me to park, you’d think, anywhere in the suburb overseen by the council.
Nah, it’s confined to my street. Full stop.
It’s a shit area to get a park at the best of times, especially market days.
And it was on the way to the market last weekend that I noticed a new sign “Works Parking” or some such thing, it says. And it’s right outside the site of the latest houses to be done up by the TV show The Block. In fact, it’s right across the road from Father Bob Maguire’s church Sts Peter and Pauls in South Melbourne. (Father Bob’s blog is at www.fatherbob.com.au). Reckon I read somewhere last week that he had to ask the blokes on the site to stop sawing during a service or something like that. (They did, by the way.)
But I digress.. Back to the new sign.
I hope The Block people are getting slugged shitloads to park their two big rubbish hoppers on the street at the expense of ratepayers' parking.


I wrote last week about maybe being responsible for the dress code being introduced at the members’ at Adelaide Oval. Said it was a story for another day. Well, it’s another day.
It was a hot day, I was wearing a press pass (I worked at The Age), jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. I’d just been outside the members’ area and arrived at the gate to get back to have a drink with my mates. Yeah, even I have mates.
The bloke at the gate was polite. “You can’t come in here dressed like that,” he said.
Hang on a minute,” I countered, I’ve been here for three days (and have two to go), in and out of the members. Here, look at my pass.”
“Sorry,” he said, digging in his heels, “you need a shirt with sleeves.”
“Mate,” I said, “I’ve been coming here for years and I’ve always dressed like this. It’s a bloody hot day. Let me through.”
He intimated no dice. Time for me to fire up.
“Mate, if you’re not gonna let me in, then you have to ask that woman (I pointed to her) to leave. She is wearing a sleeveless tank-top (with a bare midriff) and hipster jeans. Either she goes or I’m coming in.”
He relented and ushered me in, with a warning to wear something better tomorrow. Sure, I said. I didn’t.
The woman in question was the Sydney Olympic silver medallist Tatiana Grigorieva and her husband and fellow pole-vaulter Viktor Chistiakov.
A good mate of mine, Andy, was sitting directly behind the glamour couple (well she certainly was) and as we walked to the marquee out the back to get a drink, he said: “I’m not sure if I should tell you this, but she has the finest of fine blonde hair at the top of her bum crack.”
Yeah, thanks for that, Andy.
Oh, and by the way, the next year at the Adelaide Test, it was announced that a polo shirt was the least best you could get away with without being barred.


I reckon it has been long enough ... there are two clocks on the wall in my dining room, the place I go to type ... (OK, I eat there too.) Both clocks have Elvis on their faces.
I just glanced up to check the time and it says 9.30.
Guess I haven't yet adjusted the clocks since daylight saving kicked in.
I've made a promise to myself to do it tomorrow night, a good glass of wine notwithstanding.

I got a call last Friday from my mate, Andrew McUtchen, inviting me to a barbecue last Saturday.
Now, regular readers of this blog will know Andrew … he’s a talented writer with whom I work at The Weekly Review, he’s a mega-talented singer-songwriter-musician (see his website for details … in fact I’m listening to an INXS cover of his as I type this) and he’s also a former neighbour and sometimes drinking buddy.
He entertained the troops a while ago at a dinner party I had … everyone there (including The One) said it was one of the great nights … mainly thanks to Andrew.
But I digress.
Back to the barbie, his, not my new one.
I was having a cup of tea before I called a cab (now there’s a revelation, drinking something other than wine … and the cab isn’t as reference to cab sav) and I had a feeling about the barbecue.
When I walked into his girlfriend Fi’s house, he made a beeline, grabbed me and carted me off to a quiet area and blurted out: “Mate, I’ve got to tell someone. I asked Fi to marry me last night. She said yes.” My earlier feeling was on the money. Dunno why I knew, I just did.
It was a great afternoon, meeting Andrew’s and Fi’s families and friends … a great bunch of people, especially Andrew’s granddad. What a gun fella.
It was Fi’s birthday the day after, so Andrew launched into a speech that culminated in him telling everyone that Fi had accepted his proposal.
All I can say is thank heaven I was wearing sunnies, cos I teared up big time under them.
Beautiful moment, beautiful people.
And I reckon they’ll make beautiful music together.

Friday, November 4, 2011

It's Pimm's o'clock

I have a rule about cooking seafood in my house: I don’t. Quite honestly, I can’t stand the stink. But this weekend I’ll probably fire up my newly assembled backyard barbecue, courtesy of Scott, a Hire a Hubby (laughter here if the mood takes you, but it’s a story for another day) and cook some sort of fish.

Last weekend though, I broke my rule (not the first time I’ve gone contrary to a rule or two), and I funkified the house with the smell of the sea.

After baking a great tart for dinner on Saturday, I trawled the market on Sunday and came away with, among other things (including lots of fresh flowers for the house), some blue swimmer crab meat. The crab cake recipe called for just 200 grams, but the only place I could find crab meat at the market refused to sell any less than a 500-gram pack. (OK, there’s 300 grams in the freezer so I can have a crack again on another day.) I used a Nigella Lawson recipe, which is at the bottom of this blog.

The hardest part was waiting for an hour after mixing the ingredients for them to set in the fridge. Although the recipe called for desiccated coconut, I used the shredded variety (which offered a bit more texture), along with plain flour, chilli, coriander and rice vinegar. And the cakes were meant to be balls, but I said balls to that and I flattened them with the help of an egg ring. The preparation and cooking time was only about 15 minutes (the hour in the fridge notwithstanding), making it an ideal thing to cook and eat during summer.

They really were very good, with just enough chilli to give them suitable grunt without overpowering the taste of the crab, served with a simple dressed salad of rocket, nashi pear and shards of parmesan.

And given that it was a summery dish, what better thing to drink with it than Pimm’s? Yep, Pimm’s. Now, Pimm’s and I go back a ways. I remember (it was probably the late ’50s or so) an ad on the wireless, along the lines of “Pimm’s No.1 cup, the most heavenly drink on Earth”.It took me a few years to get up close and heavenly with the drink again and it was an unlikely venue. It was the members’ enclosure at the Adelaide Oval (yeah, I’m a cricket tragic who went to the Adelaide Test every year for 12 or so. OK, I had a press pass, which was the only reason they’d ever let someone such as me into the members. I swear that I’m the reason they introduced a dress code. Again, another day.)

Adelaide Oval must be one of the few sporting venues in the world where you can get freshly cooked food (and good wines) — King George whiting, steak sandwiches to die for, decent sandwiches, et al (although I can vouch for the great food at Queen’s Park Oval in Port of Spain, Trinidad, where a thing called bake and shark is a delicious local favourite. There are people cooking a range of foods in what seems every 20 metres or so. Insert Queen’s Park ranges joke here.)

But there is one Adelaide members’ venue that always stood out; a bar that sold nothing but pints of Pimm’s ($6.50) and plates of fresh prawns. The Pimm’s was served with the bar’s version of fruit salad in a glass and given that the weather was always hot, it was a most welcome thing, time and again … and again.

I prefer my Pimm’s a tad simpler, and there are no grounds for argument. (It’s also a reason why, in a certain North Adelaide Indian restaurant, I became known as the Pimm’s man.) A good glug of Pimm’s (remember it is 25% alcohol), a couple of ice cubes, half lemonade and half dry ginger and the mandatory slice of cucumber (skin on, if you please). Too easy, and too good.

It’s great with crab cakes, whatever. OK, it’s just great. Try it. If you haven’t given it a go, you’ll be more than pleasantly surprised.