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One Dinner, One Diner, One Wine #2 - Congee

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On a chilly morning in Hobart, I am delighted to see congee on the menu of a food stall at the Farm Gate Market. This time of year Hobart is freezing, especially through the city streets. Multi-storey buildings on either side of the cross hatched city streets create wind tunnels for Kununyi (Mount Wellington) to deliver its icy breath. On arriving at the market I wander the length of the stalls, perusing the fresh vegetables, baked goods and home brewed beers and spirits. Fresh bottled milk, juice and meats sold by the farmers, or at least their representatives, direct to committed locals and enthusiastic visitors. Hunger is beckoning me to the familiar and comforting; perhaps an egg and bacon roll or a sweet flakey croissant. But I keep walking past the lines of passionate pastry lovers and wafts of fried bacon to the congee stall, Rough Rice , for I know that my mind and body will thank me for the whole day, and perhaps the next one.  The first congee I ever tasted was in Thailan...
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One Diner, One Dinner, One Wine...#1

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  Tonight I was alone in my car. Heading home on a cold, wet, wintry evening. Navigating Friday night traffic, while terribly distracted by the meandering memory of a meal that I had eaten weeks before.  It had haunted me during work meetings, upon waking, showering and pottering in the garden.  I had resisted the call for weeks, but tonight the drumming had become louder and louder until finally I relented. Within minutes I was at the door of Suzie Lucks', an Asian inspired restaurant and bar that entices passers-by with neon lights and a funky vibe.  I request a small table that overlooks the square. The maitre d' leads me towards the perfect table, away from large chattering groups, to a secluded bench overlooking the outside courtyard. He recognises me from previous bookings and there is an understanding between us as he steers me towards my sanctuary, brings me tap water and the menu. I know exactly what I want without looking, and as I throw off the winter cove...
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Location: Hobart TAS 7000, Australia
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My Morning Pages

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Apparently they are a thing. These morning pages.  I have never been good at consistent routines, more inclined to change midstream and recreate new playful pathways. I put this down to having a creative mind. Who knows. It's not exactly an approach that aligns well with a bureaucratic environment. Post covid and with the devastating impact on the art world, I moved out of a highly creative role in the arts and into government. The reality of ageing, concerns about financial security and impact of covid on the arts sector had convinced me that a reliable, stable employment would be preferable to the roller coaster of self employment.   Three years on I hit a snag. The last 12 months have broken me a little and I knew that I needed time out. I had seen the avalanche coming and while I had initially been able to ski through the blizzard, it had finally caught me. The most amount of time I have taken off to look after myself.  Now I am home. Have been for weeks. The therapis...
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Lunchtime travel

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I ate my lunch by the Windward Bound and wondered why there were no seagulls wanting to share. A sparrow dropped by and I threw him a morsel. He seemed appreciative and left me alone. Only taking what he needed.  I walked to the park where a group had gathered, and a muffled voice on a microphone bounced off the lawns and the 100 year old trees. Sat nearby on a park bench and trying to look invisible, respectful, small - I observied the colour, the sounds, the words that I didn’t understand. But I could feel the hurt, the pain and frustration. After what appeared to be a silent prayer, shoes were removed and further prayer commenced. A peaceful gathering of the local Sikh community. From the placards I determined it was a call for action following  the recent desecration of the Guru Granth Sahib, a religious text that is seen as a living Guru*. Apparently someone had entered a temple and ripped out pages from the sacred scripture. I was familiar with this book, having visited ...
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Planet Wank

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This article was written in 2021 when I was undertaking a sustainability course at UTAS. I could have written more on this subject and hesitated at publishing it at the time of writing as I felt it was a bit ranty. But on re-reading I think there's some ideas and thoughts that are worth sharing.  As part of this next chapter for me I will be releasing more writing from the past. I hope you enjoy it, or at least find something interesting. I've made time in my life to focus on my writing and look forward to sharing more with you all. Thanks for reading x   In a previous post I recommended a podcast about Sustainability. I was lucky enough to listen to the first episode which I thought was pretty useful and down to earth (pardon the pun). This morning I jumped back into it to for more and found myself jumping from one episode to the next as I winced at the wanky words that made me feel more like I was listening to a 'know your own vagina' workshop than a podcast about sup...
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Remnants by K. Eastley

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Today I folded the pieces of fabric that I had bought on Wednesday at my favourite op shop. I had selected them based on the feel, design and colours; packing them tightly into the bottom of my basket to make them look lesser than what they were. As soon as I got home I threw them into the washing machine and once the cycle had finished I placed them on the clothes rack in front of the heater. By 9pm last night they were dry. The folding of loved fabrics falls into three categories;  1. large pieces that can be easily folded into thick uniform squares 2. medium size pieces that can be folded into small square piles and 3. Misshapen pieces that cannot be folded uniformly, but are rolled and pressed into a shoebox. I hear you ask, why collect these? Because one day I could use them to make a quilt, or a collar for a shirt, or edging on a skirt. One day. Once folded I carefully stack them into boxes, sometimes labelling them shirts and skirts or trims and hankies. Once filled, these b...
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Preparing for India

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On a crisp sunny morning sometime in Spring I forced myself to leave my house. I forced myself to message a friend, which led to her calling, which led to me asking, which led to me going. I washed after days of not washing, made my bed, fed the dogs, took my vitamins, threw on my most comfortable 'going out' clothes and locked the door behind me. In a small backpack I stuffed a notebook, a 176 page novel (that I am not really enjoying but am determined to finish), headphones, a travel book on India, clothe shopping bags and a large bottle of cold water. I was prepared. I grabbed $100 cash out of my secret stash, that is now empty, and threw the bag over my shoulder. My friend was late enough to allow me to wash up, make the bed and swap shirts three times. She drove. Perfect. One less thing to think about and she was generous enough to drive at 3/4 pace. I am a nervous passenger. Fifty minutes of chatter about our lives, issues, angst and to debrief. I could feel my body relax...
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