Bedroom visit was most unwelcome

If there’s a better way to start a day than this, then I’m all ears.

After a few hours’ kip, a cup of tea and a smoke, Liam suggested that we visit his fish pond.

“Fish pond,” I asked. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s where I often go after work or first thing in the morning with a cuppa. It’s like a little coral grotto with all sorts of coloured fish in it. I sit there for ages just watching them.”

The water was its usual 28 or so degrees … it doesn’t or can’t get a lot better.

The three of us headed for and early lunch at The Summit, a restaurant/garden sanctuary not too far away. It’s a very steep driveway, sometimes demanding four-wheel-drive, but worth it when you get to the top … just for the views and the gardens.

It is 20 hectares (probably swapped for a new Hi Lux ute) of beautifully landscaped gardens. The boys enjoyed pizzas while I tucked into a prawn wrap … both set us up for a drink at what was Liam’s work farewell party.

It was great to see all the blokes he’d worked with over the past five years or so … a lot of then made speeches, while a couple gave him very special wood carvings that they’d done. There were other gifts, plenty of beers, the strongest kava I’ve tasted and lots of love in the air.

Pretty soon it was wrapped up and we three were headed for some Chinese food where after a good meal, I offered a card to pay. “Sorry, the phone lines are down. Can you pay cash?” said the woman behind the counter. I had no cash so Liam took care of it before we headed home for a good sleep to prepare for the farewell party.

The whole day was just gearing for a party that didn’t take long to get into full swing. The band was belting out lots of loud music, drinks of all sorts were being downed at a rate of knots.

I spent a goodly amount of time in the pool, also getting wet on the inside courtesy of small buckets of vodka. The rest of the party was getting off its face courtesy of some mushrooms from Russian bikie chick Paulette.

I reckon the vodka almost did me in, so I thought perhaps an hour or so napping would give me a new lease of life. I headed off to my bedroom.

Sleep came pretty easily. About 45 minutes into the nap, I heard the bedroom door open and two blokes discussing gang rape. “This is not good,” I said to myself and I stood up from the bed. The two blokes, one a Ni Van, the other (I think) an expat Aussie, kept walking towards me, so I suggested that perhaps they should stop, turn around and leave.

The Ni Van bloke had raised his fists, so I raised mine and said to him: “Mate, don’t be stupid cos I’ll kill you.” Then I offered a fist in the face of the white guy and I said: “Same for you, now fuck off.”

It took a bit of sweet talking on my part to convince them to go. I followed them outside, again putting a fist in the white bloke’s face and saying: “If my fist is gonna be this close to your face again, it’ll be travelling fast enough to sit you on your fat arse.”

I had my new lease of life and reacquainted myself with the pool and the vodka bottle.

Then the karma gods kicked in. The local visitor to my room took a tumble and ripped open his forehead. There was blood everywhere. Then he fell again and busted his arm. Luckily there was a paramedic at the party. OK, almost luckily. Although she had arrived there in the ambulance, she was off her trolley on mushrooms and had misplaced the keys.

All’s well that ends well. The keys were found, the paramedic did an excellent patch-up job and all was well with the victim being whisked off to hospital. His wife drove into a tree on her way out of the party.

Yeah, it was a big night in many ways.

THE BIG CLEAN-UP

Sampson, the gardener, and I were the early starters and got the 7203 bottles and cans (it could have been more) into boxes and basically cleaned up. I managed the dishes and the sundry shit inside the house.

Liam finally surfaced with a girl called Zoe, who had camped somewhere in the house for the night. Cups of tea and coffee all round and then hew set of to take her home.

He was gone for ages and I figured he was getting a “thanks for driving me home” lay.

Not so; the car had overheated on the way home and he had to get his mate, Matty, to come and pick him up. Joel, Liam and I spent the rest of the day lazing, recovering, having a quiet beer and watching DVDs.

SNAKES ALIVE

The next morning involved a return to the grotto to have a last hurrah with the coloured fish. It was an experience made the more worthwhile by the appearance of three sea snakes in various spots. Beautiful creatures all. It was a very special moment to be up closed and personal with them.

I was packed and ready to go by lunchtime … so too was the car ready … it was back in town and so were we as we caught up with Matty for a farewell lunch before I had to flee to catch a flight to Oz.

Duty-free shopping involved getting for booze (some Jack and some Ricard that was $19 a litre), then some Chanel Egoiste for me (my favourite aftershave … you can’t get it in Oz) and some Estee Lauder Beautiful for the love of my life.

The Air Vanuatu flight was, as usual, good service although, in a shock twist, I couldn’t vouch for the quality of the wine. It was my first alcohol-free flight (OK, alcohol-free anything) .

The usual shit fight ensued at Brisbane after clearing Customs … getting from the international to the domestic terminal. Thank god the flight was delayed … the pilot eventually blamed the weather and air traffic control in Melbourne.

So there I was outside having a quiet smoke, killing some time (and no doubt myself) waiting for lift-off.

The relative quiet was shattered by a fishwife … I make no apology for saying that … who, with her family, had just got off a bus. With a baby-laden pusher she bolted towards the terminal. The other child, aged about four, was having none of mum getting away and ran after her.

The fishwife stopped, turned and screamed (and I mean screamed) at the little girl: “You bloody well get back there and help your father with the bloody luggage.”

The little girl looked devastated. I really felt for her as I headed for the terminal.

Everything about the Qantas flight (it was my first in a lot of years) was fabulous … the staff, the smile factor, the service, the whole kit and caboodle.

It was a great way to end a four-day extravaganza.     

Yep, they really forgot the plane

Ah, Vanuatu, what a land of contrasts you are.

My son, Joel, and I were Vanuatu-bound to celebrate Liam’s farewell party after five and a half years there. At check-in, we snaffled emergency aisle seats, a must given that we are both tall units. Then after a final smoke (not, thank god, for Joel who is also a teetotaller) we did the right thing and breezed through immigration and onto the strange mix of bargains and bullshit that is the duty-free precinct.

I say strange mix because the prices on certain things are, well, sometimes no better than you can get outside this supposed fantasy land of bargains.

Given that I’m no stranger to wine shops (regular readers will be only too aware) I reckon there were more than a few drops that were priced as much as, and sometimes more, than I could have got them at several places.

No matter. I wasn’t buying vino. I was, however, buying a couple of litres of vodka for the party and some tobacco and papers.

I grabbed the vodka, then a five-pack of Champion Ruby and made a beeline for the checkout, where the till man did his thing. I handed him my debit card as he scanned the vodka (20 bucks a litre) and then one pouch of tobacco. He then said to me: “Is that credit of savings?” I thought he said that’s incredible savings and I agreed with him. Joel choked back some laughter as I paid $17 for five 50-gram packs (about $200 in the outside world). Score. Had it been a stallholder at the local market or a shopkeeper, I would have pointed out the error of their ways. This time, no, I took the goodies and ran.

With the 60-odd bucks in perceived savings, I decided to buy a Swatch watch, something that would handle the rigours of camping and being dipped in rivers, etc. Done.

A good Thursday night flight with Air Vanuatu (they usually are) and we were scheduled to touch down on time … at 2am in Port Vila … which would be drink o’clock regardless of how I felt.

Joel and I managed to be in about fifth spot in the queue in Immigration. This is gonna be a breeze, we thought. Not so, on so many counts.

After about 10 minutes standing there waiting, finally someone appeared to explain, aided by a huge, pearly white smile, that there were no immigration staff available and would we mind waiting for five or 10 minutes. I asked him somewhat grumpily whether we had any choice. Pretty sure the F word slipped out.

It seemed that they’d forgotten there was a plane coming in and had sent the staff home. It was half an hour before someone finally got their arse into gear and an unpleasant half hour it was, given that all the ceiling fans in the area were switched off (maybe they forgot to pay the bill, who knows?) and everyone was hot, especially under the collar.

Finally we got through Immigration, I collected my case (Joel’s had gone missing) and through Customs to light a welcome cigarette after giving Liam a hug. Joel’s bag finally made an appearance after 20 minutes; it was (I think) found on the plane … of course, they’d forgotten to take it off the plane.

We did the only sensible thing and headed to Liam’s house for a few hours of catch-up chat and some strong drink before being pillow bound by about 5am. Yeah, it had been a long day.

Sheepyard Flat a cracker site

I gave the camping gear a hit-out with friends Maria, Harb and Max at Sheepyard Flat, a super spot just a short drive out of Merijig. Reckon it’s about 17 kilometres off the main road on a dirt track that probably wouldn't be a lot of fun in the wet.
We snaffled a spot right beside the Howqa River and, as you can see, it's beautiful. I'm pretty keen to get my kids there before the big cold settles in.
It was good to shake down all my gear and it only served to make me even keener to get back on the road. More (much more) to come on that score.
But first, there's a trip to Vanuatu for my son Liam's farewell party. He's heading back to Oz after five and a half years there.

Let's get this show on the road

It has taken a while for me not to judge myself through other people’s eyes.

LIFE UNDER CANVAS BECKONS

Cars and camping gear have been front and centre of late … and that costs a quid. It’s worth it though because it means that I’ll soon be a one-car bloke. And have a near as goddam, I’ll have self-sufficient camping set-up.

I managed to squeeze in a service for my Subaru, which included a new battery, a new windscreen (there was a chip and a scratch that would have meant no roadworthy certificate) and next week it’s a set of tyres, then it’s ready to go (OK, I’m gonna get it detailed as well) … not for me to drive, that is, but to someone who’s going to get a bloody good car. It may be seven years old, but with just 49k on the clock, it’s a bargain. Anyone interested?

My Landcruiser ute has also had a bit of work … i.e. getting a UHF radio fitted and some powerful driving lights … it’s ready to rock and roll.

Then there was the camper trailer. Two new deep-cycle batteries were installed, a new 12-volt lead was fitted on the three-way fridge (I’m buying it from my ex-wife’s husband), I had a new 12-volt extension cord made up so I can power up things like the fridges (I have two) on the back of the ute.

Reckon I’m set up now for trouble-free camping (I’m going away for the next two weekends) … enough power to last a week or so (I’ll supplement it with some solar panels), enough water (the trailer can carry 160 litres and, of course, two fridges because I’m planning to have a thirst. If anyone’s interested, there’s a link to my “life of the road” blog somewhere on this page (http://mickontheroad.blogspot.com.au/).

Next weekend, my mate Ed and I are heading to a friend’s bush block to give all of our camping gear a shakedown … the plan is to assemble every piece of camping equipment, clean it, service it, whatever, and be ready to hit the road at a moment’s notice. And anything that is superfluous to me needs will find its way into the back of Ed’s ute.

The moment’s notice will happen the weekend after next when a bunch of like-minded people from the office are getting away to Sheepyard Flats on the Howqua River. It’ll be good to get out of town, set up a decent site and spend a few of days wetting a line, wetting a thirst and whetting the appetite for more time on the road. Can’t wait.

SHOTS IN THE MORNING

Here’s a good tip.

A while ago when my friend Gaynor and I used to walk five kilometres each morning before work … yeah, we were fit … at the end of the walk we used to stop for a coffee and a smoke (I said we were fit, not healthy). The bloke used to serve the coffee with a shot glass filled with soda water. It was a tough look for anyone passing who had not visited the café … a bloke and a girl having a coffee and a shot before eight in the morning.

The deal is, though, that after the coffee, you have the shot of soda water and it eliminates coffee breath and is a real palate cleanser. Reckon I may give it a try the next wine I’m tasting wine. OK, it’s a thought.

TAKIN’ CARE OF YOURSELF

Dhav Naidu is The Weekly Review beauty writer and a damned fine bloke he is. He’s forgotten more about beauty products that any of us will ever know.

At the end of last year, he listed his best products of the year and one, Lancôme Visionnaire, was something I’d tried after Dhav recommended it earlier in the year.

He wrote:

Lancôme Visionnaire (30ml/50ml, $115/$165)

“Once in a blue moon, something is launched in the beauty world that makes you sit up and take notice.

“Lancôme Visionnaire (LR2412 4 per cent) is one such product. Released last September after 12 years of research and tested on 800 women, this serum is just short of a miracle. Lancôme counters cannot hold enough stock.

“The serum is suitable for all skin tones and works like a dream, so much so that one in two women planning non-surgical procedures are said to have postponed them after trying it.

“So what makes this product different from other “miracle” creams? It is the patented molecule LR2412. It has been independently tested and verified by dermatology professor Chris Griffiths and Dr Rachel Watson from Manchester University, who concluded that this molecule is as effective as, or more so, than retinoic acid but without the side effects. LR2412 is able to propel itself into the many layers of the skin, targeting various concerns. This allows Visionnaire to be billed as an “advanced skin corrector”. It’s engineered to reduce wrinkles, minimise pores, correct pigmentation irregularities and restore radiance regardless of skin tone, sex or ethnicity. Men are also flocking to it in droves. The product is light and absorbs into skin very well leaving skin nourished.”

When I first became aware of it, I headed to Myer, half full of red ink after a farewell lunch for a workmate, and bought some. It was a positive shopping exercise because the woman who sold it to me also asked for my phone number … not that she ever phoned, but it was nice to be asked. They never phone.

I mentioned to Dhav, after he filed his end-of-year yarn, that I had tried it, loved it, and thanked him for steering me in the right direction. He was pleased. So was I when he sent a replacement bottle to me at the office. It was timely because I had just run out. Thank you, Dhav.

I’m also trying Wrinkle Venom (with syn-ake). I use it every night and I reckon it works. I found something on the interweb, first published in Health and Fitness, to support my opinion.

“If you want to find a cure to wrinkles, you should consider snake venom cream. This great cream can make wrinkles disappear and make that face nice and smooth. http://www.wrinklecreamdirect.com/synake This article, What You Need To Read About Snake Venom Cream is available for free reprint.”
I reckon I’ve got this far with any wrinkles to speak of (no crow’s feet either), so I must be doing something right. You (blokes especially) owe it to yourself to have a crack.

DAYS OF WINE AND …

Talking of having a crack, there’s been more than the odd drink to pass the lips of late.

Because it’s summer, the drinks of choice (OK, for starters when I get home from work) have been vodka and tonic with fresh lime, gin and tonic with fresh lime, Pimm’s (see the recipe for the perfect one somewhere on this blog) and Campari and soda with lemon. (OK, there have been cans of bourbon and cola involved too). Nightcaps, by the way, have come in the form of Riccard Pastis in a long, skinny shot glass with two small pieces of ice. I kicked myself for not getting two litres when I came through duty-free in Port Vila recently. It was a snip at 18 bucks a litre.

Oh, there has also been some Dandelion Vineyards 30-year-old Pedro Ximenez sherry. Straight out of the fridge, it’s a great way to ease into dinner.

I’ve also been having a regular crack at Swords Full Fare arneis, savagnin and riesling blend, which, as always, is fresh, fruity (think citrus, apricot, florally and bloody good.

There’s also been lots of rose (it’s French and I can’t remember the name of it … that’s a tell-tale admission), some Cotes Du Rhone grenache-syrah blend (M. Chapoutier Belleruche) and some aged durif (Date Brothers near Swan Hill) to keep the flow regular.

Among others there has been Witchmount Barbera 2006, which weighs in at a handsome 14.9%, 2010 Rosabrook Chardonnay (14%), 2009 Shark Tooth shiraz, 2011 Stump Gully chardonnay and a bit of a find.

Hardy’s Nottage Hill point noir, best described as a good second bottle. Dan Murphy’s sells it for about $7.50 a bottle and says about it:

“The Nottage Hill range stands for value and quality, and the Pinot Noir delivers in spades. Medium bodied, with cherry, raspberry and a touch of mint, it makes a great drink without breaking the bank.”

I’m not gonna say that it delivers in spades, but at that price, it’s a damned fine second bottle.

Oh, and there’s a dozen Crown Lagers in my fridge (OK, there’s 11 … yeah, I tried one and that was enough). I was out the front talking to my next-door neighbour when Phylis from across the road asked me to give her a hand … to wit, picking up a small table from a few blocks away. No probs, that’s what neighbours do. I carried it into her backyard and then went on a tour of all her plants. She grabbed cuttings a heaps of them and then insisted on giving me the Crownies.

“Michael, you’re a good neighbour. Take these with you.” I protested but she’s a strong-willed woman (are there any other kind?). Now all I need is a beer-drinking visitor; God knows, I’m not gonna have ‘em.

What I am going to have, however, later this afternoon with a piece of eye fillet cooked on the barbie, is a bottle of Lightfoot & Sons Myrtle Point 2012 rose. I tasted it yesterday morning (it was just a taste, true, while I was at the market) and it’s a bloody fine drink. The fact that the girl from the winery, who was hosting the tasting, was drop-dead gorgeous and (in the old money) about six feet tall … I was always gonna buy a bottle or two.

THE HEAT IS ON

My olive jam is still getting good reviews … there hasn’t been a taster yet who hasn’t liked it. It’s almost time to whip up a new batch, this time with a touch of chilli.

I had a good look at the chilli bush this morning while I was watering (yeah, I was watering the garden at 6.45 on a Sunday morning) and I reckon there’s a bout a kilo of little firecrackers that are about a week or so away from harvest.

Then it will be time for my mate, Ben, the wine writer (@senorthomas on Twitter) and I to have a crack at making our own version of Tabasco. Roll on harvest time.

SOUNDS IN THE BEDROOM

My son, Joel, has organised me a sound system for my bedroom, hooked up to some decent (for a bedroom anyway) speakers and with a remote for the iPod.

There are about 25,000 songs on it, so there’s a bit of choice. Now, if I could just find someone who has my taste in music.

Healthy (sort of) is as healthy does

The olive jam had another day out at the office today (yeah, how good is it to work on public holidays?) when, being the good bloke I am, I took lunch for the handful of troops there.
It meant shopping at the market on Saturday … there’s a surprise … and a trip to see, Tony, my favourite opera-singing butcher. I swung on by his shop, had a chat with him and his wife (they renewed their wedding vows the weekend before) and said to him: “Mate, can you put a pork fillet through the coarse mincer and dice another into about a two-centimetre dice.” “No worries, big fella, they’ll be ready when you get back.”
Then I hit the organic fruit and veg shop and grabbed some fantastic tomatoes, some rocket, a cucumber, some unbelievable seedless red grapes (sweet beyond sweet) and a big fat nashi. Then it was on to the deli for a wedge of Edam, a dozen slices of prosciutto and a jar of pickled red capsicum, a trip to the nut shop (there are quite a few that qualify as nut shops but just one that sells nuts). A chicken breast at the chicken shop (it was one big mother) and that was the end of the food shopping.
No trip to the market is ever complete without a trip to Swords wine shop to chat with my mate, Dave, who had Ticket Booth Sideshow Pale Ale on tasting. I tasted (yeah, there’s a surprise), but I opted for another bottle of Trappistes Rocheforte 10, which I tried the weekend before. Again it was my weekend treat. (See the previous blog entry. Nothing has changed; it’s still the best beer I’ve tasted.) I also grabbed a bottle of Dave’s Full Fare blend of arneis, savagnin and riesling blend, still a bloody cracker summer wine.
Hunger had kicked in. I reckon it had a fair bit to do with not having a proper dinner the night before … it’s not as if I didn’t eat, but a couple of barbecued snags on bread, a couple of beers and a two of small (OK that’s crap, they were large) buckets of vodka and lychee cocktails a meal does not make. It was the end-of-week get-together at the office. Oh, there was also a date with a bottle of 2004 Date Bros durif after the office.
But back to the hunger. Lunch became a salad of some organic tomatoes, cucumber, chic peas and some tuna in olive oil. Three minutes to prepare … and it was a life saver.
 Post-lunch it was time to prepare the first part of lunch for the troops, a pork and chicken breast terrine with pistachios.
The terrine is shit easy: put the pork fillets into a bowl, add two tablespoons of Cognac (it was Camus Borderies XO, a family-owned vineyard said to be the smallest and rarest of all Cognac growths … I was tempted to have a snifter but it was a bit early in the day), some freshly grated nutmeg, a big handful of pistachios and the chicken breast (whole). Give everything a good mix for a few minutes and then cover it with clingfilm and refrigerate overnight.
The next day involved the market again for some bits and pieces, including a six-pack of the Ticket Booth Sideshow Pale Ale. It’s a beauty dominated by hops. I just love it. I also managed afterwards to do the domestics … stripping the bed, washing the sheets and a full load of towels. I also found time to clean the kitchen benches and scrub the bath. Christ, I need a cleaner.
Time then to cook the terrine. I usually pick four decent sage leaves and arrange them in the bottom of the terrine dish (a nice girly touch) and then line the dish with prosciutto and then layer the pork mince and chunks, then the whole chicken breast and then the remaining pork and fold the prosciutto over the top (which is really the bottom). I usually cook it in a preheated oven (in a water bath) at 180 for two hours. The rule of thumb is that when the juices are running clear, it should be cooked. Once it is, let it cool, weigh it down with a couple of cans of something (it was chic peas for me) and refrigerate it overnight.
After a picky dinner of cheese, dips and bread Sunday night, I made one of my toughest life decisions. I’m still hurting, but that’s not a story for here. I rode my emotions instead with another 2004 Date Bros durif.
Monday dawned with a heavy heart and a heavy head, but there was lunch to prepare and that involved grabbing a couple of crusty baguettes on the way to the office.

Lunch was terrine, pickled capsicum, a rocket, nashi and parmesan salad, olive jam, grapes, Edam, bread, olive jam and some ham and cheese that I found in the office fridge. Tick, tick, tick. My friend Sue brought her new juicer (she calls it Juicy Lucy) to the office with heaps of watermelon, carrot and apple, so it was a mega-healthy lunch all round. And yeah, wanker that I am, the olive jam again was a hit. One of the guys said that if he gave me the money, would I make some for him.
Maybe there’s a business opportunity there.

Olive jam, Shakespeare and a French woman who really went off

It’s now official ... I can make jam … and not the usual variety.

At Christmas, someone gave me a jar of olive jam, something that spent (as it turns out) far too long in the cupboard.

I dragged it out about three weeks ago when lunch was a cheese and fruit platter and had a crack (OK, and some crackers too). It was bloody good ... and it got me thinking, I could make that.

And make it I did, but not before a bit of research. Anyway what did I have to lose, other than my reputation because I mouthed off to friends about it and promised them all a taste or two? Mind you, my friend Anna, who runs a stall at the South Melbourne Market, was convinced that you can’t make jam out of olives. “I’m Greek,” she said, “I’ve eaten olives all my life. You just don’t make jam with them.”

I had a huge jar of Kalamata olives in the fridge and the other ingredients with the exception of some fat green olives and a large green apple. Oh, and some preserving jars, which I bought at the kitchenware shop in the market. Yeah, the woman there gave me a discount. Shit, I love the market

The recipe I used, and there are plenty on the interweb thing, was on the Yahoo Answers site. Needless to say, I didn’t adhere to the measurements … I just reckoned that if it looked about enough of this or that, it’d be OK. While it was cooking, I baked the jars in the oven to sterilise them.

The recipe:

2 cups drained and pitted Kalamata olives (packed)

1 cup drained and pitted high-quality green olives (packed)1 1/3 cup sugar1 1/3 cup water1 organic lemon1 large green apple, peeled, cored and diced1/3 cup mild honeyPut the olives in a large saucepan and cover with cold water. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat and boil for one minute. Drain completely. Repeat this process two more times - this should take enough salt out of the olives so that they're only mildly salty. Set the olives aside and rinse out the saucepan. Add the sugar and 1 1/3 cups water to the saucepan and swirl to combine. Cut a couple of strips of zest from the lemon and drop them in the sugar water. Slice the lemon up very thinly (don't worry about the seeds), and add the slices to the pan as well. Bring this to a simmer over medium heat and let it cook for about 8-10 minutes, or until it's reduced to about a cup of liquid. Pour this through a strainer into a bowl, pressing on the lemon solids to extract as much liquid as possible. Return the liquid to the pan, adding the diced apple, honey and olives. Bring to a simmer again and cook, stirring occasionally, just until the apples are soft and everything is very thick - about another 10-15 minutes (you can add water if it seems to be getting too thick). Remove from the heat and let cool slightly. With an immersion blender or a normal blender, process the entire mixture until it is velvety-smooth. It should be quite a jammy consistency already; if it's runny you can continue to cook it a little bit more, but keep in mind it will thicken as it cools. Transfer to jars and refrigerate.

Well bugger me, once it was cool enough to taste, I tasted. Bingo. It worked a treat and what a treat it was.

ROMEO & JULIET WITH A MODERN TWIST

I headed off on Wednesday night to see a production of Romeo and Juliet in the Royal Botanic Gardens. Me and culture? God, that’s a bit of a shock to the system, eh?

I’d been given a couple of freebie tickets and after my first choice (on so many levels) as a partner said she wouldn’t go, I asked my friend Elizabeth at our office. I call her Bette, which probably annoys the bejesus out of her, but I reckon she’s too decent person to say so. And she agreed top pick me up and what’s more, she snaffled a parking spot … they were as rare as rocking horse shit on the night … about 80 metres from the entrance. How good is she? Two others from the office, Maria and Jo, were also going, so we decided on a picnic of sorts, which included the public debut (well, it was the theatre) of my olive jam.

As usual, I packed enough stuff to sink a ship … a tea-towel, a stopper to reseal bubbles (should there be any left, and there was. More on the stopper later), a cheese knife, a small bottle to use as an ashtray, a rubbish bag, disposable plates and cutlery (gifts from my friend Anna at the market), plastic Champagne flutes and a wine chiller (yeah, if you’re gonna do it, do it properly). Oh, and there was some food: to wit, a roast chicken, a slab of  Le Delice de Bourgogne triple brie, described at SamCooks.com as “a thick, unctuous cheese with incredible mouthfeel and a nutty, slightly barnyardy quality”. I would have just said it’s a mouth orgasm, mind, but no matter. There was also some blue cheese, some truffled goat’s cheese, some Edam, breadsticks, lots of water crackers, dips, figs, grapes and the olive jam.

Maria brought French bubbles (as did I along with some sparkling mineral water) and a picnic rug. We snaffled four low chairs, got ourselves settled and got into it.

One of the cast was doing the warm-up comedy thing (why Shakespeare needed a warm-up man was beyond me … still is) and he asked the crowd whether there were any single fellas in the audience. Silly bastard me stuck up a hand, expecting that there’d be a few, but I was it. Seems everyone had a partner but me. The bloke came over to me and really endeared himself (not) by saying something like: “Well, no wonder you’re single, try having a shave. But there are a couple of single women down the front.” I said: Why bother, I’m here with three. And maybe you could clean your shoes some time.” Smart arse. Him, not me (OK maybe a bit).

I’m not sure why there was dialogue that included a reference to Facebook, among other things, slipped into the performance, plus a song or two, but that’s what they did. I reckon that if old Billy was still pushing a pen now, he would be on Facebook in a flash to give it the thumbs down. No matter.

It was a fun night … the play went down OK but perhaps not as well as the Le Delice and the olive jam.

Bette dropped me off at home (what a woman) and I had a chat to son Joel while I put away the leftovers. I also decided to put away the two thirds of a bottle of bubbles (it’s called Madame Coco).

The Balgownie Estate stopper was doing its thing until, as I placed a flute on the kitchen bench, it went off like nothing I’ve ever seen or heard and about 40 centimetres from my head … it hit a double steamer hanging above the bench. The noise and speed at which it happened scared the shit out of Joel and me.  I’ve got no doubt it would have at least knocked me out or even killed me if it hit me on the right spot. Yeah, the doctor was right when he said that drink can kill or at least do serious damage.

No harm was done and after a few glasses, I decided to have the last one in bed … it was a nicely decadent way to end a pleasant day.

For the record, I found this extract on the site of Sunshine Creek, a wine shop in Camberwell:

Madame Coco is a very spiffy little number from Fourth Wave Wine. It’s well packaged, well priced, well made and well easy to quaff. It’s a blanc de blancs sparkling white wine grown in France’s Aude Valley. It’s made with chardonnay (50%) and chenin blanc mostly, though there are some small inputs from other high acid white varieties. It spends 12 months on lees. It’s made properly – methode traditionelle – none of this tank-gassed-fermented business. If you go through a bit of sparkling wine, you’re pretty much mad not to jump onto this. It’s French, it’s bubbly, it’s under $20 and it’s a whole lot of fun. In many ways, there’s no need to say anything more. It’s musky and lemony, alive with fluffy bubbles and flavoursome enough. I know it’s a blanc de blancs but I saw some Turkish delight characters in it; though that said, I drank a bit too much of this a bit too quickly, so maybe my judgement was impaired. It’s that kind of wine. Buy. - Campbell Mattinson  www.winefront.com.au

I’m with Campbell, it goes off. Give it a try.

TO MARKET, TO MARKET

I’m always happy when it farmers’ market day (it’s usually the third Saturday in the month).  And so it was this morning … and another fruitful (OK, I didn’t buy fruit) trip.

The bounty made it worthwhile: the organic pistachio man had run out of chilli pistachios, so I had to make do with natural, the garlic string (about eight or so heads), the organic falafel mix (an extra box for my friend Ange), some olive sourdough bread, some beetroot relish (I told the woman stallholder about my olive jam and she’s planning to make some), some goat sausages, some chilli chocolate and the best chai going.

One down, one more market trip to go … and this time I grabbed a parking spot at the door.

I was armed with some tasting packs of my olive jam, one for Anna and another for my friend, Dave, at Swords Wines.

First stop, Anna. “Shit, that’s beautiful,” she said, “but it’s not jam. Really.”

Yes it is, I told her. We agreed to disagree and she headed off to get a baguette so she could get stuck into it.

Next stop, Dave. “That’s really good,” he said, “really good. You have to send me the recipe. And I have to get you some onion jam from a shop near my house. You’ll love it.” Done. I headed off for some food shopping and told Dave I’d be back.

I went to my favourite deli (the one with the cheese room) and bought a slab of Le Delice, a couple of dips, some baklava and a couple of small(ish) savoury tarts. Tick. A fresh baguette was next stop. Given that there were plenty of goodies at home, dinner tonight for Joel and I was going to be a damned fine platter of bits and pieces. Tick again.

The next stop was back to see Dave at Swords. He’s had a case of 2004 Date Brothers durif put away for me for a while. It’s the last of it that he’ll get. Dave always has something to taste and today it was a special beer (Dave tweets as @vulgarbeerman and he know his stuff).

Trappistes Rochefort 10, a  Belgian strong dark ale-style beer brewed by Brasserie de Rochefort in Rochefort, was the taster of choice. The Trappistes website says: “Enjoy it, drink a second glass, and a third for special occasions, but never more”. There’s good reason for that: it’s a whopping 11.3 per cent.  

One website suggests: “Dark colour, full and very impressive taste. Strong plum, raisin, and black currant palate, with ascending notes of vinousness and other complexities.

For mine, and you’re probably not going to find any tasting notes that say this, but seriously, this beer is as smooth as a cat pissing on velvet. It’s quite the best beer I’ve had since, well, since God’s dog was a pup.

And just as I was enjoying it, I got a phone call from my brother to ask where I was. “At home, typing some stuff for my blog,” I said to him. He countered with: “Do you know where I am?” “Where?” And my heart sank when he said: “At Lisa’s wedding (his daughter).” No, I explained (or tried to), Joel and I talked about it this morning … it’s next weekend. “Have a look at your invitation.” I said: “But I wrote it in my diary … the 26^th.” And I had. I looked at the invitation … yeah, the 19^th.  If that doesn’t make me the biggest shit uncle there is, then I don’t know what would. Sorry, Lisa. So sorry.

Snorkelling and the fin

Angus and Liam ... they are never too far apart.

While I was in Vanuatu, I locked Angus, the dog, inside when Liam headed off to the local shop, waited for about 10 minutes and then let him out. Straight away, he went to check whether the ute was there and then bolted out the gate and up the road with my seriously hungover self in pursuit.
The bugger didn’t stop running for about a kilometre, something that really cleared my head. It not great for him to be out roaming because there are lots of dogs in the area, not a great thing when you’re, like Angus, a wuss who’s fond of picking a fight.
Out the front of Liam’s house, there’s a veritable seafood supermarket. There are steps cut into the cliff that lead to the rock shelf that is the introduction to the ocean.

It’s about 40 metres wide at low tide and it’s safe to walk out to its edge ... locals armed with a bamboo pole and a piece of string often fish there and catch stuff ...  although it’s always on the alert for a rogue wave.
There’s a deep blue hole just before the drop-off, which, Liam says, is teeming with fish. He’s a keen snorkeller and has a spear gun and also a long, hand-held spear, so his plans are for plenty of fish on the menu.
He rang me the other morning to tell me about his latest sojourn into the deep blue. “I went out with Matty (he’s a plumber and champion bloke) to see what was going on. We had a look around the blue hole and then headed out beyond the rock ledge into about 80 feet of water. It was much further out than I’d ever been before.
“I made a dive, had a look around, and as I came back to the surface, something hit my fin really hard. I shit myself.
“I spun around and all I could think of was heading in. It was bloody Angus. Bastard can’t bear to be away from me for five minutes.
“There he was paddling for all it was worth in 80 feet of water.” It’s true, Angus hates it when the boss is out of sight.

SHE’S APPLES 

Liam’s iPhone has been giving him grief for a while, a bad thing given that’s it’s really his work computer.
It finally gave up the ghost just before I left. We tried everything … no go. I decided to bring it back with me in the hope that I could get it fixed and shunt it back to him before he starts work again next Tuesday. His boss, Ryan, is in Melbourne until this arvo, so no problem.
First and foremost, I was astonished to find that there are just four Apple shops in Melbourne, but no matter, I went online and made an appointment at Chadstone shopping centre.
I arrived there in plenty of time to find a parking spot (yeah, like that was ever gonna happen). I finally went in to one of the car parks, worried the whole time about the height restriction.
As I eased the LandCruiser under the height bar, I was relieved when the cab made it through, but then the bar on the back hit it. Shit, too late to turn back (there were cars behind me) so I drove through, looking for a spot, all the while shitting myself because I reckon I had less than 10 centimetres clearance. I crawled along in first gear, all the while with visions of getting stuck on a light fitting or whatever and having to be surgically removed.
I was relieved to get out of there (of course there were no spots) and I drove what seemed like two laps of the shopping centre and still couldn’t find a spot.
 I gave up and headed for the Maccas down the road. I’d walk back. Yeah, that was gonna be good … it was just 40 degrees.
I got to Apple about five minutes early, made my presence known, and waited. Pretty soon, young Tom said g’day and took the phone away for some diagnostics. He was back about 10 minutes later and the news wasn’t good.
“It’s got a fake screen, there are some screws missing inside, it’s out of warranty and the battery is done,” he said. Damn, it was beyond fixing. What to do?
Tom headed off for a chat with his manager and came back with a smile.
“Despite all the problems, we’ve decided to replace it … for a fee of $229,” he said. “Done,” I said, “that’s fantastic.”
It’s not hard to see why Apple is so successful. For a big company, the service is a cracker.