Transcribed from my notebook as I sat at the beach this evening:
Sometimes, blissfully ecstatic experiences arise unexpectedly. It’s 40 degrees outside, or so they say and it sure feels like it. Our cheaply – built little house with it’s token gestures to insulation is an unbearable sweat-box by midday. The pool, farcically, is closed due to the New Year’s Public Holiday. Oh, the humanity! The northerly wind is blowing in hot air from the central desert and whipping sand up along the Apollo Bay Main Beach. One of the few places left to retreat is the relatively protected mouth of the Barham River where it flows into the open ocean. The Barham is a perfect Otways River. Flowing down from the rain forest, the water is clean (if not clear) and lovely. Before the river discharges into the Southern Ocean it opens out into a large, still pond at the back of the beach. Continue reading
My mind has long been at war with my body. Primarily the battle has been purely psychological, but three weeks ago after a long period of escalating tensions, my body and I entered Def-con One. War broke out. For the first time in my life, I went on a diet motivated primarily by weight loss. There have been two primary foes in my mind’s battle for my body: Self-Esteem and Ego. Self-Esteem is a terrorist. It whispers hateful words when I look in the mirror and explodes bombs of self doubt during sex. It feeds on fear and uncertainty. It is hard to find and difficult to capture.Ego is a powerful bully. It takes control of my mind by drugging it with the things it wants. It tells me I’m too smart to buy into all this body-image bullshit. You’re a strong, educated, critical woman, it says, you know that you’re being manipulated by advertising to buy into an ideal that doesn’t exist. Have another pork spare-rib, it’ll make you happy. You want to be happy, don’t you? 
Scenario 1: It’s Thursday night. The Child, who has previously been relaxing on the couch, sits bolt upright and says “Wait! Mum! There’s something I have to show you”. Much rummaging in the school bag follows until a note approximately the size of a matchbox and soggy with kiwi fruit stains is produced. It says something like this: “All parents of prep 1 & 2 parents please remember to bring a contribution to the Year 9 Camp Fundraiser Cake Stall on Friday.” Horror, followed by anger: “Another cake stall? I have approximately 3 jobs and a matching number of volunteer commitments and I was actually planning on spending an hour to myself this evening sitting in front of my computer with a glass of wine writing about food. You know, actually doing something for myself. You know what? They can get stuffed. I’m not sending anything. I’ll give them $10.00 instead”. Followed again by horror: “It’ll all be on. The competitive baking bonanza is about to occur. Plates of miraculous cakes will be produced by the good mothers, the mothers who miraculously know what’s going on at school well in advance. Mothers who are prepared. If I don’t send something the school is going to know I’m not a good mother”. And to be honest, between my failure to make The Child do his homework, or keep on top of the school uniform laundry, or provide a rubbish-free lunch box, I can’t afford to make matters any worse. 
When I walk to work in the morning I pass a stand of big, old Oak Trees. Two weeks ago, before we went away, they were bare – a beautiful piece of fractal lacework against the gray winter sky. As I passed them last week on my first day back at work they were vibrant with new growth, lime green on a blue sky. The air was heavy with the smell of freesias and sunshine. The birds sounded different. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, spring had indeed sprung. I love winter. I love big, wild weather and dramatic skies and sleeping under the goose down listening to the rain on the roof. But nothing quite brings such a sense of exhilaration to the soul as the coming of spring. 
Some experiences are truly magical. We have just returned from a week’s holiday – organised on a whim and nothing flashy at a little house in a place called Wandiligong. Wandiligong is nestled between Mt Buffalo and Mt Hotham, a long and narrow settlement that meanders down a beautiful valley. It has been declared a heritage landscape by the National Trust and has numerous utterly charming red brick public buildings and old miners cottages dating to the gold rush days. The property (
My husband is studying writing (take a moment and have a look at his blog:
starts tomorrow and I really should be making sure there are clean clothes, food for lunch and all that jazz. Instead I’m sitting at my computer, inspired to write about my trip to the Apollo Bay Farmers’ Market. Our local Farmers’ Market is a baby, little more than a few months old. And like all babies, it’s utterly lovely. Today I returned with a kilo of beautiful organic limes from a woman who sings tenor with me in Choir, an armload of gorgeous proteas my neighbour had grown, a bottle of truly fresh and beautiful olive oil from 
coffee black and my spirits neat. I have a degree in archaeology and I work for 
consider myself to an especially outstanding cook. I will happily claim ownership of an arguably above-average number of outstanding culinary moments but on a day to day basis my cooking is pretty average. And as such, one thing I particularly dislike is when a trained chef (typically not very experienced, or more usually actually just a kitchen hand) scorns your jar of supermarket mayonnaise or disrespects your packet of pre-made gnocchi. “Why would you buy that rubbish”, they scorn, “its just as easy to make it yourself”. My blood boils, my eyelids twitch and my lips tremble with the effort of keeping my mouth shut. My naturally default position of politeness and respect must be kept in check to prevent my snarly inner monologue from blurting out: You know what? I’m not a chef. I have no formal skill or training. I am entirely self-taught and I’m here to tell you, brother, that it is NOT just as easy to make it yourself at home. So take your apparently non-splitting / non-curdling egg mayonnaise and your perfectly pillowy potato dumplings and #*#@ off!!