The end of the hols, in the Van, the hypnotist and a bite (or two) to drink

Yep, it came to pass that before I went on holiday, I went to the hypnotist to quit smoking.
I always say to Angelo (I’ve seen him four times) as I leave his house, “Mate, I never want to see you again.” And so I did.
I went there with my friend, Gaynor (she drove, what a woman), and we did a dual session. Again, I went deeper than Jacques Cousteau, sometimes being shaken from my almost slumber by the sound of Ange’s voice, which seemed to be coming from somewhere in another suburb.
It was a great session although Gaynor I guess didn’t plumb the depths that I did. But it worked, or did it?
I did the only sensible thing after Gaynor dropped me at home.
I went for a drink (OK, quite a few drinks) and I hung with a couple of smokers. No problems.
The next morning, hangover notwithstanding, my joie de vivre had hit a level that I hadn’t experienced for a while … and it was good. I threw around a few weights (it’s part of the look better in summer campaign) the next morning, something that got easier by the day … and night.
About the only downside of being a non-smoker is listening to people who say things such as “Oh, you’ve given up before. You’ll be back on them soon”. What is it with these people? Haven’t they heard of a thing called positivity? Jesus wept, these people go through life being negative and with a glass half-empty philosophy (my glass is almost always full).
Another positive thing about being smoke-free is that after 5-6 weeks of not buying tobacco (yeah, I roll ’em), I’m in profit … that is, I’ve covered the cost of the hypnotist.
Yet another positive is the increased energy levels. My son, Joel, got home one night and there I was, halfway through a bottle of red, standing in the hall and pumping iron. “I gotta burn some energy,” I said to him. He just shook his head knowingly.

LAWN ORDER 

I was supposed to burn some energy (OK I made that up) in the lead-up to Christmas at a gathering of friends for our (almost) annual croquet match in the gardens around the corner from home.
It’s usually a pretty toffy affair (OK, I made that up too). We have cucumber sandwiches, a bucket (no, true , we buy a stainless-steel bucket) full of Pimm’s with lemonade and dry ginger ale (see the perfect Pimm’s recipe elsewhere on this blog) and my mate, Hanks, brings his most-excellent Henry Buck’s croquet set.
The lawns, by the way, are better suited to playing a five iron rather than wielding a croquet mallet. I even remembered to bring a folding chair … God knows, it was going to be so hard to get perpendicular from the ground given that I was nursing a hangover big enough to photograph … and a bottle of Freixenet Cordon Negro, aka Spanish cava.
I actually opened it before I left home and poured it into a crystal flute for the walk to the gardens (I’d taken all the stuff like tables, chair and grog earlier in the back of my ute). Reckon I cut a dashing figure (OK, that’s stretching the truth) as I walked through the Albert Park village sipping from a crystal flute.
Dunno what it is about the strange looks I got. Don’t those people have any class? I mean, haven’t they ever seen a man, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a green satin shirt with puffy sleeves and huge lapels (I had the shirt made from my wedding in 1980, so it’s not a Seinfeld reference) and sipping bubbly as he walks?
OK, I wore the shirt as a bit of a joke, but I’m just happy that it still fits.
It was a great day, with the trophies presented later at Lina’s wine bar, where I prepared in an appropriate way to ensure that my hangover the next day was of the proportions of the previous. It was (OK, maybe a tad worse). Reckon my tongue resembled Ghandi’s sandal.

IN THE VAN 

The rest of the Vanuatu trip (see earlier post) was a cracker. Liam and I spent most of our time just hangin’. It was good to be in his space.
We didn’t go out to dinner at all and only went out to lunch twice in the week and then only because we had to get supplies from Port Vila.
There something kinda cool about being in a house where, when you hit the kitchen in the morning, there’s a crab in the sink … there was another that had taken refuge on top of the door, not a good place to be when the door is opened. Sorry about that.
Speaking of crabs, there were a few coconut crabs wandering the garden at night, which augurs well for the season.

The biggest that we saw (and yes, it was cookable size) was a female laden with eggs, so she was never gonna see the inside of a pot.
One thing that amazed me was the absence of bird life ... I mean, not so much as a seagull, which is not a bad thing, just a motley collection of mynahs. I mentioned it to Liam, who said: “Yeah, the locals eat ’em. They eat just about everything. They even eat stonefish.” Right.
Seeing Port Vila in its best light was from a vantage point on a hill overlooking the harbour enjoying a shell of kava in a nakamal. The view of the sun setting was worth the price of admission.
A true Nakamal is where the men from a village gather to drink kava after work. Traditional nakamals are a men-only and many islands, such as Tanna, still do not allowing women or children even close to a nakamal.
Tanna, by the way, is the island from where Liam’s gardener and security man, Sampson, originates. He’s a great kid (he’s 19) who has landed on his feet. He lives in the self-contained cottage at the entrance to Liam’s house. Sampson gets a decent quid for his week’s work, a house and a mobile phone.
Security is paramount, given that some villagers reckon that shopping is as simple as going to someone’s house and helping yourself, so the phone is important should anything untoward happen at the house.
Getting out of Port Vila was the hardest part of the trip.
And as promised, I met up with the bozo from the flight in. He was with someone who was a friend of Liam’s, so having a chat was compulsory.
It seemed, that true to his word on the way over, he hit the grog. He spent six hours in the sun one day, drinking until he fell asleep and he ended up redder than a trade union meeting. Ha.
After a final farewell to Liam (yeah, I teared up. Always do), I hit security and about 3.20 and headed for the duty-free shops. The plane was due to leave at 4.10 so I should have had just enough time for shopping and a final smoke (yeah, I started again over there) before I took up my emergency aisle seat (Air Vanuatu is so good to me).
Alas, the plane was running a bit behind schedule and, the announcer said, would be touching down at 4.10 instead of leaving then. Shit. There was a humongous thunder storm doing its thing and the plane didn’t land until 4.30. That meant a 5.30 departure after refuelling and loading. Shit, shit.
I had just enough smokes to see me out … there is an outdoor smoking lounge at Vila and it was actually cooler out there than it was in the terminal. And that meant that the formerly sunburnt bozo made regular appearances. He was at his aircraft reassuring best when the plane finally landed.
Yeah, he went again with the Qantas reject line, but qualified it with: “She’s a good bus, but. They just serviced her here and used a plane borrowed from Air Hawaii.” I guess he meant Hawaiian Airlines, but who’s quibbling?
Finally we boarded and I was sitting next to a couple who had a sail boat that they kept in Vanuatu. I’d met them in the smokers’ lounge. Nice people, but Jesus, did they enjoy a drink.
Now, I’ve been known to stop a drop going stale (yeah, I have a crack) but they were full on in taking advantage of Air Van’s excellent service. Think scotch on the rocks, scotch and Coke, Kahlua and milk, Bailey’s and milk, red wine, all in multiples and not necessarily in that order. It was a pretty handy four-hour session. Me, I had just two glasses of red. Christ, I can be a sanctimonious bastard sometimes.
Still, it was good to hit Melbourne, have a final smoke before grabbing a cab (he was a mega-friendly driver) home in time for a debrief with Joel, who was busy watering the garden when I got there. It was good to see him.

BACK TO BUSINESS 

I got back to the rough and tumble that is life.
Finally, I’ve got my camper trailer stored close to home, which means weekends away. See http://mickontheroad.blogspot.com.au/ for my adventures with the trailer.
Now all I have to do is sell the Subaru Forrester (yeah, one car is enough and I prefer the LandCruiser ute. If anyone is interested, it was first registered in December 2005 and has done just 48,000-odd clicks, bugger all, and it’s the full luxury pack. If you’re halfway interested, drop me a line in the comments section on the blog.

AND A TASTE OF … 

In the lead-up to the festive season (OK, that’s crap, it’s the festive season 12 months a year at my joint), there has been more than the odd good drop pass the lips.
I grabbed a few bottles of 2009 Seppelt Chalambar shiraz. It’s cracker drinking … spicy, smooth and a blend of Grampians and Bendigo grapes and weighs in at 13.5%. The label says it’s elegant. I’ll go with that.
My favourite tipple at the moment is 2009 M. Chapoutier Belleruche Cotes du Rhone Grenache-syrah. I snaffled a case a little while ago (there another on order). It takes smooth to a whole new level.
Among others, there have been:
• 2011 Paul Mas cab-sav (13.5%)
• 2011 Paul Mas chardonnay (13.5%)
• 2008 Balgownie Estate sparkling shiraz
• Mountain Goat Before The Dawn black Indian pale ale
• A fantastic (my second favourite drink at the moment) blend from Swords Wines’ Full Fare label – ameis (spelt amies on the label), savagnin, riesling grapes come together for something that wouldn’t be out of place on any French or Italian dinner table. It’s fresh, with citrus, apricot and floral notes with a touch of minerality. Super drinking and 12.5%.
• 2011 Mitchell Harris mataro, grenache, shiraz from the Pyrenees. There’s a bit of raspberry, earthy and peppery flavour about it. I’m pretty sure there have been plenty of others, but that maybe a story for another day.
And there’s more than a few good ones in the drink-next queue.

END OF THE HOLS 

Alas, it’s back to work in three days. OK, no alas.
I’m looking forward to starting a new contract as deputy editor of The Weekly Review … http://www.theweeklyreview.com.au/ … in new offices that are even closer to home (think walking distance). I had a look at our new digs yesterday.
Bring it on.

Holiday on and a bozo takes to the air

Flying with Air Vanuatu is, as I’ve said a few times before on this blog, one of life’s great flying pleasures. I rocked up to check-in the other night (it was a 10 o’clock direct flight out of Melbourne) and the beaming girl, after the usual “did you pack your own bags, brush your teeth, wash behind your ears and use deodorant, etc”, said: “Right, I think I have one more emergency aisle seat left. You’re a big man, you’ll need it.” Praise be. I mentioned that I’d asked for one when I was booking and she told me that they like to see the people first. Guess they don’t want any short arses getting comfortable in the tall person’s rightful domain. Just the fact that she offered it was worth the price of admission. And talking of price, there was no charge, unlike Virgin, which I reckon would charge rental on a life jacket or a cleaning fee for using an oxygen mask should anything untoward happen. I probably shouldn’t even mention those things. It may give Mr Branson ideas, and anyway, I reckon he still owes me five bucks from my one flight with his mob (See Richard Branson owes me a fiver somewhere else on the page). By the time we’d ditched terra firma and settled into the right height, speed and whatever else pilots need to do to get the show on the road, it was time for the staff to offer libation (and a small packet of manioc chips. Really tasty things but the name is a little too close to maniac for me). The girl got to me first (I was on the centre aisle) and said: “Would you like a drink, sir?” The bozo sitting next to me jumped straight in and said “Yeah, red wine and scotch on ice for me mate”. No please, no thank you, no patience. She politely gave me a glass of red and then attended to the others. Just as she was about to push off, my left-hand man held up his glass and said: “I’ll have another one.” Oh, I thought, this is gonna be good. And it was. By the time the meals came around, he’d had (I think) four drinks. Our little emergency-aisle crew all opted for the beef tenderloin and mash, with vegies, caramelised onions, a good salad, some chocolate cake and a partridge in a pear tree. The beef was very good. The boys next to me went one better: One said: “I went to a steak restaurant in Lilydale last week and paid 42 bucks for a steak that wasn’t this good.” Yeah, right. They managed a couple more drinks during the meal. By the time the meal trays were cleared away, the bozo next door tapped my arm (I was listening to music on my iPod to drown out the noise of his infuriating doof-doof collection, complete with hand actions, pumping, etc) said: “Wanna go the tall it.” Right. I got up to let him out for the first of three trips designed to make room for some more red wine. Again, no please, no thank you. Once he got settled into his seat, he buzzed for service. The stewardess arrived quickly and said: “Yes sir.” His only response was “Red wine”. It was about this time that we hit some mild turbulence and bozo weighed in: “There’s turbulence. It always happens,” he said knowingly. “Anyway, this plane’s too small. I reckon it’s a Qantas reject.” That’s worth knowing, I thought, glad we got that sorted. Then his mate chimed in. “It’s $4 for spirits all day on Sunday at the joint we’re stayin’ at.” Bozo responded with: “You gonna sit in the pool and drink all arvo.” When his mate signalled the affirmative, bozo gave out with an emphatic “Grouse.” It wasn’t until we were about 10 minutes out of Port Vila that bozo said something that didn’t include the words dunny or wine. “How long ya staying?” he asked. I told him seven nights and he said: “Great. We’ll probably catch up with you on the flight home.” I told him how great (that should read grate) that would be and how he should have a terrific break, by which time the good skipper had done the right thing and put the bus down on the bitumen. Gladly, it was into the heat and humidity and that tropical airport smell of diesel that is Port Vila, even at two in the morning. After clearing Customs, it was another joyful reunion with my son, Liam, who had been in Melbourne two days before for a friend’s wedding. We did the honourable thing and threw my gear into the back of his ute (think Mel Gibson and the truck he used to pull down the South African embassy in the film Lethal Weapon 3, or was it Lethal Weapon 11?) and made a beeline for his new digs, about 20 minutes out of Port Vila. The house is on Devil’s Point Road in downtown Bakura … and about the last 4-5 or so kilometres are on the dirt, a task that didn’t trouble the ute. Mind you, I thought that sitting on 40 it seemed to be making short work of the trip. It was only then that I realised it’s a Ford Yank tank and the speedo is in miles per hour. It was hard to get a feel for the house and its surroundings … OK, it was dark … other than that it’s on a decent chunk of land (it’s an acre). I threw my bag into the room that was to be home for the next seven days and then divvied up the duty free goodies … to wit, a couple of litres of vodka, a 250mm lens for Liam’s new camera and a new pocket-sized speaker for my I Pod. It’s probably inappropriate at this time to mention my supply of L’Occitane hand cream. Oh, and there were the three good reds that I’d packed in my main luggage … a 2005 Clonakilla shiraz-merlot, a 2005 Bobbie Burns shiraz and a 1977 Taltarni cab-sav. Well, who wants to get caught short when it comes to good reds? The next step was a given. It was after 3am, which meant that it was at least beer o’clock. We settled on the back porch to catch up on each other’s comings and goings, the whole time serenaded by the waves crashing into the cliff face that is the edge of the property about 30 metres from the door. Beer o’clock soon became French cab sav o’clock and by about 4.30 daybreak had started to do its thing. We each got our cameras and started taking pot shots of the beautiful new day. As the sun got up and about, the view that unfolded was a cracker … looking back across the water to Port Vila. So was the rest (read the house and surrounds) of what hopefully will be (it depends on the bank) the new Chateau Liam. He’s planning to buy it and do it up. The bones of the house are really good … four bedrooms, a big living area, a small cottage at the front of the block, a decent back verandah, an infinity pool that is right at the edge of the cliff, a deck (at the cliff edge) with built-in barbecue and a tennis court … but it’s been vacant for about a year and has been let go a bit although it’s very liveable. Just the sort of challenge needed for a young builder. The holiday was always going to be pretty much a house-bound deal … lots of time eating, drinking, soaking up the amazing views, spending time with Liam’s girlfriend, Dan, and her kids Emmy and Tahlia and the occasional trip into town for necessities. Day one late in the afternoon was to attend the company’s Christmas party held at the storage yard. There was kava aplenty, lots of beers and the makeshift barbecue was doing a roaring trade in bits of chicken. There are about 60 NiVans working for the company and I reckon I’ve met most of them before. Gabby, a big unit, walked up to me straight away and said: “Good to see you, mate, shit you’ve put on some weight.” Yeah, thanks Gabby. The boys made short work of the drinks while they were getting their final pays for the year, The woman who does the pays was obviously in Christmas mode because she missed a few. Liam, to his eternal credit, dipped into his wallet to make sure each of the boys got their right whack. And it was a decent quid he had to shell out. After the pays, most of the workers took the time to make a short speech, each one a great lesson in humility, despite the overindulgence in kava and beer. It was all heartfelt – such as “Thanks, boss, for everything this year. Without your support, there would have been no food on the table for my family.” As the light faded, we headed home for a dinner of tuna steaks and salad, a few beers and most of a litre of vodka. We were both a bit shabby by the time midnight rolled around, so we headed to the pool for a refresher. It worked, because the next morning it was clear heads all round. Day two involved driving into Vila to the biggest supermarket in town, aka Bon Marche. Given that it was Christmas Eve eve, the crowd there was thicker than a Collingwood supporter. No, really. OK, maybe a Man U supporter. I reckon most of Port Vila was there shopping for last-minute stuff. Those who weren’t were on the road stuck in the shit fight that is traffic in the capital. We were shopping for the next two days and there were some friends, Katie and Alex and their kids, as well as Dan and the girls coming for lunch. I got an idea of the cost of living in these parts. Because had let all his cash go the night before paying the workers whose pays were mixed up, I flashed the plastic. It was 36,000-odd vatu plus another 2100 for three packets of Winnie Blues on the way out. By the way, the exchange rate is roughly 100 vatu to the dollar. You do the maths. Mind you, the start of lunch was a more-than splendid affair on the deck beside the pool to start. Lots of olives, artichokes, onions, and three of the best cheeses I’ve had … a huge slab of not-quite-runny blue, some very runny triple brie and another, the name of which escapes me. Also, we had some grapes, beetroot pickle (delicious) and lots of crackers. Some Tuskers (the local beer) helped the cause no end. Lunch was meant to be chicken salad and fresh tuna salad, but it seemed everyone was so cheesed out that they became dinner, by which time we opened the Bobbie Burns, which was, as usual, a bloody fine drink. It was great to meet new people and catch up on their world … they live on the harbour in Port Vila and came there via Melbourne, to where they came via the UK. Is it my imagination, or does the torrential rain (which is falling as I write) really flatten out the ocean? Yes, I think it does. And it’s certainly topping up the pool. Not that it has taken away from the view. And there’s that wonderful smell of rain and greenery in the air. Ah, the tropics.

FOOD FOR SPORT 

There’s an indoor sport in Vanuatu that I never tire of watching. Nothing untoward, mind. It’s watching the geckos on the walls and ceiling in the lounge room … and their never-ending task of keeping down the bug population. These little fellas … they’re about 6-8 inches in the old money … scurry along the walls to within a couple of inches of a moth or whatever and stop. ‘Spose they figure that the bugs just can’t see them. And then the lurch forward and make the catch. It’s seriously good sport ... all that’s missing is an excited commentator. Gone, got him. The other good sport in these parts is watching Liam’s dog, Angus, a really intelligent fella who likes to push the envelope and get himself into trouble. He knows all the rules but just can’t help himself. Even when he’s in the back of the ute, it’s one bark for pedestrians and cars, two barks for a four-wheel-drive and maybe three for a bus. There are lots of crab holes in the lawn and Gus likes to stick his nose down there to try to catch them. “I’m just waiting for the yelp,” said Liam. Occasionally, Gus will try his hand at digging them out. Still no luck while I’ve been here. His other great sporting pursuit is, at low tide, wandering down the steps cut into the cliff and trying his luck fishing in the rock pools on the expansive rock ledge below. He wanders from pool to pool, sometimes getting excited because he’s spotted something trapped in there. Dunno whether he’s actually managed to land anything yet, but he gets full marks for perseverance.

It's gonna be crays, crabs and tuna ...

I’ve said before and I’ll say it again … dealing with Air Vanuatu is as good as it gets. I booked a ticket … yep, I’m outta here on December 20 for Christmas in the tropics … and everything about the airline is how it should be … n.b. Qantas and Virgin. No request is too much trouble, right down to claiming an emergency exit seat (I’m a tall unit) alongside my son, Liam, who is on the same flight. And let’s not forget, Air Vanuatu is a full-service airline. I wrote about it last time I went there … the food was the best I’ve ever had at 35,000 feet and the wine bottle makes a re-appearance regularly. It’s all included in the cost of the ticket. I talked a couple of times with Liam during the week and he is pumped in more ways than one. He’s so excited about the new house. “I had to fill the pool,” he said, “and I reckoned it would take about 50,000 litres, so I went and bought a pump, dropped a hose over the cliff and filled it with sea water. “At five the next morning I was swimming in it. “I bought a new surf rod, so the next thing it to crack a beer on the deck and try my luck.” His mate, Johnnie Bangalulu, lives in a village not too far away and he gave the place the thumbs up. Johnnie and his mates fish quite a lot in the area and he suggested that the place is live with heaps of crays and the line fishing is great too, with lots of tuna to be had. And he also said it’s an area from which the boys get lots of coconut crabs. Johnnie, by the way, was so enamoured of Cathy Freeman’s performance at the Sydney Olympics that he called his new daughter Cathyfreeman Bangalulu. Yep, Cathyfreeman … one word. And she’s a beautiful kid. I met her last time I was there. Tuna steaks, anyone? Perhaps fresh cray? And don’t forget the coconut crab. At that rate, we’re only ever likely to leave the house to buy something to drink.

THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME

The trip and the prospect of some warm weather have me motivated to get into … well … let’s call in summer shape. I usually walk a couple of kilometres a day, but I’m now a month or so into a weights program of sorts. A few sets with dumbbells every morning and every night, salad lunches most days and not too much in the way of beers is helping to turn back the clock a bit. The weight (that’s mine, not the ones I lift) has dwindled to 86 kilograms. It’s long been a target to get back to 84, somewhere I haven’t been for years and that was when I hit the gym five days a week. So I’m pretty pleased that 84 kilograms is not out of the question. Yesterday I even hit the (home) gym for a short, sharp session. Hope that becomes a daily thing too. Part of the weight-loss program has even included a haircut. Reckon it’s the shortest it’s been in quite a while. That’s a small price to pay, given that the hairdresser (OK, I call him a barber) again introduced me to the six others in the salon as “This is Michael. He’s one of those weird heterosexuals”. Yeah, thanks again Chris. The healthy kick will continue at a rate of knots this afternoon. My friend Gaynor and I are heading to Sunbury to see Angelo, the hypnotist, and give up the smokes. Guess I’ll write plenty about that later.

GREEN WITH …

After an early start to the day yesterday (yeah, I was up and at ’em at about 6.30 … remember it was Saturday morning) and after the usual domestics, emails, twittering, lots of tea and a weights session, I headed to the market to see what was good for dinner. The market ritual is one of life’s pleasures … talking to my favourite stallholders, seeing what looks good in the fruit and veg bits … not just buying willy-nilly. I’m the sort of pain in the arse who, for example, picks up a bunch of coriander, smells it, checks for any sign of wear and tear, puts it back if there is, and then checks another bunch and maybe another until I get one that looks and smells just right. You get what you pay for. I popped in to see Chris, the Tattslotto man (he’s married to Anna, who runs a stall just across the way), for a chat and to buy a ticket. He handed me a bottle of 2006 Coolart Estate pinot from the Mornington Peninsula. “You’ll enjoy this,” he said. How about that for service? He was right. It had plenty of fruit, but was really soft and, well, round. Dinner was looming as a green pawpaw salad. I found a beauty at the Chinese grocer, along with some fresh ginger (it took five minutes to find the piece I wanted), some Thai basil, a couple of limes, some kaffir lime leaves and some chillis. I already had whatever else I needed at home except a feed of prawns, but they would be the last thing I bought before heading home. And anyway, there was beer and wine to taste at Swords. The beer, Holgate Brewhouse Road Trip, was an absolute beauty at 5.8 per cent. My mate Dave, who runs the shop, knows his beers (he tweets as @vulgarbeerman) and said the hops were what made it great. He wasn’t wrong. It was gonna be perfect with the salad. I wasn’t a fan of the new chardonnay … too much sugar for my liking. A couple of bunches of fresh flowers for the house from Lou, the flower man, and it was time to scout the fish shops for the prawns. Finally, I found the ones I wanted. I told the bloke how much I wanted to spend and he grabbed a heap and held them up to me. “Nah, better throw in a few more,” I said. He did and then charged me the original price. I’ll be back. For the record, I reckon I was the only person in the whole market who was wearing a Remembrance Day poppy. That was a bit sad. Dinner was a cracker (yeah, I know I say that a lot). I shredded the green pawpaw, threw in some beanshoots, a few strips of tomato, ditto some cucumber, ginger, chilli (it was a firecracker), some deep-fried shallots, diced spring onion, lots of torn Thai basil and Vietnamese mint (from the garden) and some peanuts that I dry-roasted and the crushed a bit. The dipping sauce/dressing was veg oil, fish sauce, a splash of wine vinegar, lime juice, spring onion, kaffir lime leaves shredded, a bit of sugar and some chilli. I tasted every time I added something and reckon in the end I got it right. I piled the salad onto the plate and whacked a pile of prawns around the edges. The deal was, dip the prawns, drain it onto the salad to dress it, and get amongst it. And the Road Trip beer, with lots of Chinook hops (among others) went perfectly with the tucker. I probably could have got a meal such as this on Victoria Street for much less than it cost me, but there’s something about making it yourself. Self, I said, you’ve done good.

Long weekends ... roll on holidays

How good is it to have a long weekend every week? Pretty bloody good, actually. The hardest part is finding enough things to do. Yeah, there’s always a trip to the market, the domestics to do, car washing (yeah, like that’s ever gonna happen), have a haircut (there’s only so many you can have), whatever … and then there’s the time after lunch. I mean, this getting up early crap is playing havoc with my life Day off? Yeah, why not get up at six and do stuff. Seriously though, getting up and at it is great and already there has been a dividend. I actually took the time to read my local newspaper and found an ad for the Wine Box Warehouse (wineboxwarehouse.com.au/), which is not too far from my joint. And given that I’m running low on quaffing wines, it was a must-do trip and, as it turned out, a productive one. It’s a seriously big, barn-like joint, stacked from arsehole to breakfast with cases of stuff to drink ... and rows of bottles on the counter, all waiting for tasters like me. There were just two of us there, the bloke behind the counter and me. He was chatty (maybe he was just pleased to have someone to talk to). “Have a look around, find something that interests you and have a taste,” he said. Not a problem, I thought, the idea of tasting wine at 11am is as good as any other time. It was a bit daunting given the volume, but I’m a good shopper. No messin’ about. I made a beeline for the pinots where there were lots of familiar labels. Then I saw Ketu Bay pinot on special at $9.99 a bottle by the case. There are some pretty decent pinots coming out of Marlborough and I thought I’d have a crack. It tasted all right. The tasting notes say: “A very good example of Marlborough NZ pinot noir. A bright clear and engaging deep ruby red colour with exciting garnet hues that promise all good things are coming your way. “A wonderful toasty nose, showing lifted dark red fruit, with hints of cherry ripe strawberry, cranberry, raspberry, tamarillo and some intoxicating cinnamon spice. “The entry is soft and generous, with delicious fresh summer ripened cherry and dark savoury raspberry building on the mid-palate. The tannins are a key part of the structure; although nice and soft they still add a hint of slight vanillin, making this an ideal all year round drinking style. “Perfect for tapas, pasta, chicken and when the kids are away and you unexpectedly get a moment to yourselves!” It weighs in at 14 per cent. “I’ll have a case of this, ta,” I said. Given that there are outlets selling single bottles of it on the dark side of 20 bucks, it seemed like a wise choice. It was. OK, so I have the quaffers covered for a while, now it’s off to the market to buy what I need to make chicken, pumpkin and sage risotto for dinner. I started the ute and pointed it in the right direction but had to pull over to take a call from my eldest son, Liam, in Vanuatu. He has just organised to rent a house. It’s a smart move, given that he wants to buy the place, well the house, not Vanuatu, and he figured that living there for a couple of months would give him a chance to weigh up the pros and cons of travelling (it’s 15-20 minutes from the centre of Port Vila) and work out how much dough is needed to renovate. “It’s a crackerjack house,” he said, “It’s on a cliff looking out to the ocean. There are steps cut into the cliff to get to the water. It’s got four bedrooms, a big deck, a tennis court and an infinity pool leading up to the cliff edge. And there’s a bungalow for the old man. “You can walk down to the water at low tide and set your cray pots or sit on the deck and cast a line and snag a tuna. The snorkelling’s good too and I just got a new spear gun. Waddya reckon?” “Reckon I’m in.” He’s coming to Melbourne in December for a wedding and will be heading back on the 20th. “Why don’t you and Joel come back with me and we’ll do the Christmas thing, a bit of fishing and whatever?” he said. “I’m in,” I said. “I’ll put it to Joel and see if he can get the time off.” Joel’s still working on the time off. Hopefully he can snag it. Well, that’s the quaffers sorted, the holidays sorted, now to get dinner sorted. To market, to market. The goodies for dinner were soon in the fridge and it was time to catch up with a friend, Ed, for coffee, which was a good thing given that he told me about some Nikon photographic gear that was up for grabs. I called my fiend Louise to ask her about it. “I’ll get it to you on Monday, via Ed,” she said. Roll on Monday, cos I’m very keen on Nikon gear. I have a D40x, which I bought new about three years ago and I love its work. I have about 10,000 photos on a hard drive … I’m planning to spend a week of the holidays editing and sorting them. But some new gear will certainly get a workout in Vanuatu. Another coffee (that’s two for the day … enough already) in the sunshine, shooting the breeze and soon it was time to pull up stumps. Well, time to go home, grab a jacket and head off to meet friends at Lina’s for a quiet glass or two. There was even a bite to eat involved, so the risotto would have to wait until Saturday. Saturday dawned and I was getting up at 6.30 just as Joel arrived home from work. We’d planned a shopping trip in Footscray later in the day at about noon. It was gonna be a tough ask for him given the hour. I have a friend, Pauline, who works at Savers there and she told me that they had lots of cowboy boots for sale and that it seems no one in Footscray wears them. The shopping plans were put on hold when a mate, Aussie Dave, messaged me and suggested we have a quiet drink or three, a bite to eat and perhaps a flutter on the horses. Why not? It’s been years since I’ve spent a Saturday arvo in a pub. We met at the Emerald in South Melbourne, surely one of the great pubs, with meals served all afternoon, and a good crowd in. Oh, and you can also have a bet there. And while we didn’t have a collect all day, it was good to catch up and solve a few of the world’s problems, all punctuated by the constant shrieks of a girl who was obviously having a good day on the punt. There aren’t too many pubs around, I reckon, that send around plates of freshly made sandwiches free for patrons later in the afternoon. It was a nice touch. I can’t remember better all-round service. The staff was fantastic. So too was the risotto later in the day. I didn’t quite prepare the way I perhaps should have, but the result was worth it. To wit: finely diced shallot, finely diced garlic and torn sage leaves. I cooked the chicken and the pumpkin in duck fat, which gave both a new dimension in taste (well I reckon it did). Then I did the usual with the Arborio rice and hot chicken stock until the rice was as creamy as all get out. I didn’t have any dry white opened for the cooking so I used a splash of vermouth. It worked well. I made sure that I didn’t eliminate all the liquid before stirring in the chicken and the pumpkin, sage leaves and a big dollop of butter before grating some aged parmigiano reggiano over the top. I washed it down with some Ketu Bay pinot. Job done. Earlier in the week, I revisited two friends. Chalkboard pinot (available at Vintage Cellars) and Full Fare pinot (from Swords). I’ve talked about both wines elsewhere on the blog. Both are worth the price of admission. I did also enjoy a 2008 Henschke Keyneton Euphonium shiraz, cab sav, merlot, cab franc blend (thanks Sue), which was drinking beautifully … it was complex with rich, dark fruit flavours and fine tannins and weighed in at a robust 14.5 per cent. That’s it. A blog post done and it’s time for Joel to surface and then we’ll head off to maybe buy some cowboy boots or whatever.

Bypass surgery that misses the mark

This whole waking early thing has its upside and downsides. Saturday morning, it was a laugh. I went onto Twitter for the usual look at what was happening in the world, cup of tea and a smoke in hand, and there was this tweet.

I did respond to the author, alas she didn’t respond. Yeah, I know, that the Michael Vaughan to whom she referred is the former England cricket captain, but given that it’s my name (I had it before he did), it gave me a laugh. Then on Sunday night, I thought, bugger it, it’s time to change the side of the bed on which I sleep. No real reason, other than for a change and given that I’d re-arranged the furniture in my bedroom, it was as good a time as any to give it a try. It was a restless night ( of sorts), the usual tossing and turning, moving to the other side and retreating, but all in all not a bad result. And I didn’t kill myself or hit anything when I visited the loo in the middle of the night. In fact, by the time I woke on Monday morning at 6.15 (I got up soon afterwards), I was feeling good about it. The buoyant mood continued until I got into the shower. It was cold water and it stayed cold. Bugger. Off I went to the laundry to light the pilot light. No dice. This was plumber’s territory given the banshee-type noise made by the service. And anyway, the plumber was due (for the third time) to try to fix a leaking pipe under some concrete in the backyard. The report came back later in the day. Yep, it was a leaky pipe and the plumber dug a hole, bypassed the problem area and all was well with the world. The hot-water service needed nothing more than a service. Glory days. I got home from work, took a pee and flushed the toilet. OK, I pressed the button and nothing happened. Bugger. The water wasn’t turned off. Must be a backlog of air in the pipe, I thought. I went to the basin to wash my hands, turned on the cold water tap. Nothing. Bugger. It seems this Einstein of pipes certainly had bypassed the leak, but he’d also managed to bypass the bathroom. Bugger. Yep, he’ll be back tomorrow morning, but nothing he can do can erase the pain I went through having a cold shower (sure, there have been times when I’ve needed one) but this was torture. Bugger. And hey, I’m so looking forward to the hot shower in the morning, you know, with no cold water to back it off and make it bearable. Why me, God? Bugger.

A SINGLE-MINDED APPROACH 

I was having my daily salad lunch (yeah, I’m trying to be healthy) today, sitting in the office and reading the papers. Given the name of this blog, my eyes were attracted to a story headlined “Best of friends ’till death do us part”. It was a story about a survey done by online dating site eHarmony. I didn’t read much of the story, but I did check out the two lists: one was the top 10 most important qualities when looking for love.
1. Friendship
2. Chemistry
3. Enjoying the way I feel around my partner
4. Being open about how he/she feels towards me
5. Personality
6. Kindness
7. Romantic attraction
8. Being able to talk about personal problems
9. Being able to discuss how I feel about him/her
10. Physical closeness
I get that top 10 pretty well, but what really hit home were the top 10 least important qualities when looking for love:
1. My partner’s beliefs
2. The amount they smoke
3. Age
4. The amount they drink
5. Ethnicity
6. Height
7. Education
8. Income
9. Religion
10. Knowing they are to blame when things go wrong.
Yep, I reckon there’s a lot of blokes out there, just like me, who will read the “least important” things and think: hey, I’m half a chance to find the one.

Misogyny … now this is the real deal

A mate sent me these three ’50s advertisements at about the time Tony Abbott was in hot water over misogyny claims. Reckon they’re worth sharing.

THE SON SHINES AS AN EXAMPLE

My youngest son, Joel, has moved in with the old man and what a good thing it is. There’s the company – he’s a good talker, who covers many and varied subjects – and there’s the calming influence he has on me. He doesn’t drink or smoke. Yeah I do both in abundance, but he sets a good example, something I aspire to, at least with the cigarettes. He’s tidy and also makes his bed every day. What sort of example is that for a son to set for his father? Basically, he has created his own castle in his room. Which is kind of why I was up early yesterday (OK, it was before seven, which has become the norm. Even today, Saturday, I was up and at it by 6.15) doing the domestics … washing, unloading the dishwasher, tweeting, checking emails, drinking copious amounts of tea, reading the papers (can we still call them papers when we read online?). The next thing I knew, I was re-arranging the furniture in my bedroom. It took just an hour. A bed here, a cupboard there, a lamp here and there, a dressing table there, a TV somewhere … and a partridge in a pear tree. The carpet got re-acquainted with the vacuum cleaner and it was job done. I even decided to put four large candles in the fireplace, which looks an absolute treat and adds to the ambience. Reckon that by 11 o’clock I’d put the washing away, got a new bedroom, paid some bills, including the tax man (Jesus, do they ever end?), had a shower and was ready to face whatever the day offered. First up it was a tour of my new digs … Joel and his girlfriend Erin finally surfaced – she’s on day shift and he’s doing nightshift – and I’m not sure what she made of my comment. “I just though I’d try something different cos it was time to try a new spot for the workbench (bed).” She smiled and muttered something about people doing their best work there. Then it was all about pottering around because the skies opened up and it was cold. Still, it was good for the garden (more on that later). My other son, Liam, called from Vanuatu with what he said was exciting news. “I’ve got your hair,” he blurted down the phone. “I’m growing it and it has developed curls. Looks like a bloody affro. It’s as high as it is wide.” It took a while for my laughter to subside. “And I reckon I’m close to buying a house,” he said. “It’s an absolute cracker. It’s about 15 minutes from the centre of town (I know the neighbourhood) and has four bedrooms, a pool, tennis court and is on a four-metre cliff, which has steps cut into it down to the beach. There’s a big deck around the pool, but get this, you can sit on the deck and cast a line. You can fish from the backyard. “The place is in three wings, with thatched-roof walkways between each wing. Oh yeah, there’s also a bungalow for the old man.” That got the old man’s mind wandering, this time to re-arranging furniture in the bungalow. Who knows? The rest of the day involved a return to the current reality, re-arranging the furniture in the dining room, scrubbing the bath, re-arranging the deckchairs, whatever, before braving the rain and heading off to meet friends to share a bottle of sangiovese. Bloody good it was too. I backed it up at home with my favourite quaffer. Some Macon Villages chardonnay … don’t reckon I’ll ever get tired of its nice citrus nose or the fruity (not over the top), creamy texture. I’m down to my last two bottles. Another case is called for when my local reopens after a two-week renovation. Sleep came easy in the new bedroom, but not before I’d cracked a toe on one of the newly placed bits. Yeah, I’ll get used to it.

IT’S EASY BEING GREEN 

My garden is coming on well. It’s such a good thing to get out there and pick stuff to eat. At the moment, despite having a yard not my bigger than a shoebox, I have heaps of flat-leaf parsley, mint, basil, chocolate mint, Vietnamese mint, tarragon, horseradish, fennel, chillis, spinach, sage, lemon thyme, regular thyme, lemon verbena, rosemary, mustard greens, cardamom (it doesn’t set pods because it’s too cold in Melbourne, but the leaves have good flavour), chives, nasturtiums, rainbow chard, a bay tree, a thing called olive herb, some eternal basil, a lemon tree, a tamarillo tree and an olive tree. And there’s a tray of seedlings with lots of dill and chervil almost ready to plant out. There’s also some hanging baskets with petunias and pansies, a window box with beautiful white/pink geraniums, a few yuccas and assorted bits and bobs. Apologies to any that I’ve forgotten. The olive tree looks likely to set enough fruit to preserve. I did olives a couple of years ago, but only ever bought them from the market. It’s time to have another crack. Oh, and there’s a prolific orange tree in the front garden. I reckon it sets at least 500 fruit every season, which keeps my friends happy.

GOOD DAY AT THE OFFICE 

I sat in the editor’s chair at The Weekly Review a couple of weeks ago while Eils, the boss, took some well-earned R&R. While she was swanning around at a wedding in Sri Lanka, we were sweating it in a different way. But the week went well. It was good to have her back last week … even better when she handed me a bit more responsibility. We initiated a couple of new systems while she was away and they worked. I came home on Tuesday night and said to Joel: “You know, I can’t remember having a better day at work than the one I had today. It just went well.” I was in a very good mind space. Still am. Thursday night after we’d put the papers to bed (early as well), Eils and I were having a quiet beer at our desks when she said: “Time to make it official. I’m giving you a title. You are now officially deputy editor. Well done.” Like I said, I was in a good mind space, only better.

PINOTS GALORE 

Last Sunday I rocked on down to Ormond Hall for Pinot Palooza. There were about 50 exhibitors (not sure just how many but there were heaps) from Oz and across the ditch in New Zealand. Reckon it’s not hard to get smashed at something like that. I tasted 15 wines in the first hour and then thought whoa, slow down, or this will get ugly. Time out for a smoke because one wine was merging with the other. Yeah I could have done the spit thing, but I don’t like the idea of wasting it. I drank water in between tastings, so there. Seems every one I tasted was a cracker. Montalto Reserve was my favourite Australian and TWR … that’s Te Whare Ra Wines … was my favourite Kiwi. There was also a survey with prizes for the best of Oz and Kiwi. Girls were wandering around with iPads getting the punters to enter their best for the chance of a prize or two. Bit of a problem there. It seems that TWR was not included in the survey. The girl told me to stay where I was and she headed off to find her boss to get it fixed. Fifteen minutes later she returned and said there was a technical problem and they couldn’t fix it. She took my survey in my favourite way … pen and paper … I did feel obliged to tell the TWR woman (she was great when I tasted it) that her company had been left off the survey. She was not happy. I managed to soak up some of the excesses with a tasty pulled-pork kebab with lots of coriander and lemongrass. It did the trick. I guess I tasted about 30 pinots before pinot fatigue started to set in. The only sensible thing to do was to grab a cab and head home, grab a plate with some brie, red grapes, cheddar, olives, salami, beetroot dip, some shaved fennel and fresh baguette and a bottle of pinot, which was poured into one of the splendid Riedel pinot glasses that were in the Pinot Palooza tote bag. The pinot, by the way, was Full Fare from Swords at the market. It’s from Mornington Peninsula and it oozes spicy herby flavours and a hint of cloves on the nose and it has a nice soft finish with cherry and rhubarb. It’s 13.8 per cent. It was a fitting way to see out Pinot Palooza Sunday.

A DROP OF THIS, A DROP OF THAT 

There have been plenty of good things in glasses at my joint of late, not that it will surprise anyone who takes the time to read this blog. Even though I’ve cut (most) beer from my agenda (it’s a weight thing), I do have a treat once a week, usually from my mate, Dave, at Swords wine shop at South Melbourne Market. Dave tweets as @vulgarbeerman and really knows his stuff. Today, for the record, he’s got Spikey Norman (70% apple and 30%pear) Cider and Bohemian Pilsner & American Pale Ale on tasting today, along with Swords new moscato. I had a crack at Before the Dark Black IPA . It’s a limited edition from Mountain Goat. It’s a big 7.4% and is made using five different malts and late-picked hops. It’s a beauty. I also tried some Road Trip IPA from Holgate. It’s one of the best beers I can remember. Lots of hops and pine on the nose, then there’s a lovely passionfruit taste. The label says grapefruit and marmalade too. Dunno about that, but I’d drink it every day of the week. Also tried Maison de Parnassa 2011 cab sav. It’s 13%, a cracker that drinks easily and cracker value at $12.99. Another beauty was Swords 2011 sangiovese/merlot from Adelaide Plains. It’s chocolatey with black fruit on the nose and finishes with cherry and star anise. I’ve had three bottles and will probably grab another today. Then there was Rocland Estate’s marsanne/viognier/roussanne blend, a Coldstream pinot, a Chateau de Citeaux 2009 Bourgogne chardonnay, a couple of bottles of Marques de Tezona 2010 tempranillo, an Underground pinot from Mornington Peninsula and even a celebratory bottle of Bolly. My mate Ben (@senorthomas on Twitter) gave me a bottle of The Kraken black spiced rum. It’s a great way to finish up night with lots of warming chocolate. I was given a second bottle as a going away gift from the crew at Crikey. Ben also snaffled a bargain, which he passed on … a case of six Seppelt Pinot Noir Chardonnay sparkling. Obviously there was lack of storage because the p[lace was unloading it for $30 a case (six). I think I saw it for $19-odd a bottle. It’s not a great drink, but it’s a long way from the worst I’ve had.

FLEXING THE MUSSELS 

I think one of the great bargains at South Melbourne Market has to be mussels at five bucks a kilo. Apart from the 10 or so minutes scrubbing and debearding them, it’s all too easy. Finely sliced onion and four big cloves of garlic into some olive oil to soften, a big splash of white wine, burn off the alcohol, add a heap of halved, hand-crushed cherry tomatoes (you could use canned) some finely sliced fennel, a handful of torn basil leaves, a handful of roughly cut flat-leaf parsley, then bung in the mussels and steam them until they’re open. Chuck out any that are still closed. Viola. A fresh, crusty baguette and that’s it. I ate the whole kilo band soaked up the sauce with the bread. It was the beginning of a love affair. Speaking of mussels, I’m flexing my own muscles … I’m three weeks into a light morning and night weights program to get a bit of shape now that summer’s coming. I’ve dropped three kilos as well. Even had a check-up with the doc, who told me that the only disease I have is young person’s disease. Roll on the hot weather. And speaking of love affairs, I’m hooked on a triple cream brie called Le Delice. My local wine bar, Lina’s, gets it from France, but it was with great joy that I found it in the cheese room in a deli at the South Melbourne Market. She’s a great mistress.

... and the policeman was surprised ...

It has been a while since I’ve put pen to paper, as it were. I reckon the weight of numbers has conspired against it. And there have been plenty … numbers that is. Lots of words to work with at the two jobs, lots of great meals, great wines, great beers … yeah, just lots of stuff (hangovers performed well in the numbers since I last hit this site). Reckon I had a hangover big enough to photograph recently when I wandered to the market to get some food to soak up the excesses of the night before. I parked behind our office and trundled down the lane to the market. There was a purse, bulging with plastic cards, on the ground. I did the honourable thing and stuck it in my calico shopping bag and did the food thing. I stopped at the cop shop on the way home and handed the purse to a young uniformed bloke. “Dunno what’s in it. It’s nothing to do with me,” I said. He looked surprised. “Anyway, it may be something embarrassing to the owner.” He opened it and discovered nothing more embarrassing than some cash and a bundle of plastic cards, including a driver’s licence. I had to fill in a form. He said to me: “If it’s not claimed, you’ll hear from us and get the contents.” “Nah, donate it to the policeman’s benevolent fund. It’s not mine.” He looked surprised and asked whether it would be OK to let the owner know who I was and where I lived. “Yep, that’s not a problem.” It turned out that it was someone who lives about 150 metres from me. The young copper thanked me for my honesty. Not so, the owner. I don’t reckon it would have been too much trouble for the owner to maybe drop a note in my letterbox to say thanks, but that never happened. Shame that. Mind you, I felt good about doing the right thing.