My Suburban Life

The chicken is golden brown, covered with crispy rashers of bacon and surrounded by rich, meaty juices that will be drained later for the gravy. I pick on the burnt edges and dip my finger into the chocolate ganache that is about to be poured on the chocolate cake. A last minute request from the kids. Mmmmm bacon and chocolate ganache - delicious. Waking at 6am I have the list in my head for tasks required for the following three days: stuff, roll and roast Mum's Xmas chicken make Mum's classic apricot topped cheese cake chocolate cake for the kids remove bagels from freezer in preparation for Christmas Day breakfast change the sheets on the bed to make Christmas Eve feel a bit special help the elderly neighbour with his rubbish bins - putting them out and bringing them in hug the other elderly neighbour and check what he is up to on Christmas Day. Usually it is lunch at a local pub with his family and then a visit from his son in the afternoon. I think he is wearing his good s...

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...

  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...

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...

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 ...

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...

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...

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...

The third week of Spring and the garden is already giving generously to the table. Stretching its wintry arms and puffing out its chest as the seedlings begin to emerge from the still chilly soil. Months ago I brutally ripped out the massive rhubarb from the back yard, sliced it into small dishevelled portions and optimistically threw them into pots full of mediocre potting mix. All of them have grown and now I ponder how many to hold onto. They are already presenting long red glossy stems – perfect for a sweet and tart crumble. Ready for harvest in the kitchen garden are two spinach varieties, spring onions, mizuna and broccoli that allows me to nip off the tender bunches when needed in the kitchen. The mizuna is a wonderful surprise and a welcome, dare I say better, replacement for lettuce. Tossed with a dressing of olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper, this green is delicious. Add some home baked croutons, Parmesan, finely sliced apple and a handful of walnuts, it becomes worthy ...

Last night I had a blind date with American actor, Frances McDormand. It didn't begin that way, but I am so glad we connected. It was my first date in three years. As I drove to the cinema I reminded myself to be kind and open minded; open hearted. Sporting an identifying red scarf, I waited for the stranger to arrive at the table. I try to manage expectations, but there are rogue fantasies that take us into future scenarios. A rolling tape of The Sullivans, Seven Little Australians, the Brady Bunch or Sleepless in Seattle. Time and experience has taught me to be more realistic and to mask disappointment. He arrives. A pleasant smile and glassy eyes, that I suspect have been buoyed with a few steadying beers. I go into journalist mode; asking open questions, digging a little deeper into this man's life to see if there's a hook, a spark, a something. There isn't. I suspect it isn't there for him either. After 30 minutes of polite, friendly conversation I wrap it up, ...

At a time when half the world became expert at making sourdough, I turned, like many, to my garden. A long time love of growing plants of all kinds, but particularly edible ones, kicked in and there I was planting, digging and relocating. The process of creating a garden is interesting. In another life when I was married and lived in the bush I loved the garden we created. Planting out became an experiment in patience and as I thumbed through books about growing food in rural areas I started to realise that there would always be compromise. The challenges of growing in rural areas is the competition with possums, wallabies, rats, rogue chickens and sometimes even snakes. At first I'm sure I puffed out my chest in colonialist ignorance and shouted into the paddocks...'I will beat you. I will build fences and make traps and ....' You get the picture. However, as I observed the environment, the behaviour of the animals and our needs as a family, I started going down a differen...